Anime gives me life

And also just as quickly does everyone protect and defend you. Like Jax could open his mouth and they are all already rushing to your defense lmao

Even gangle dont fucking play when it comes to you

of course, at first, he's teasing and lwk bullying you obviously because its jax come on

But when you keep dodging it by smiling or even AGREEING with him to hopefully make him happy, it confuses the hell out of him like

You aren't mad??? At him??? What the fuckkkk????

eventually, somehow, on some adventure you two get separated from the group and end up being stuck together and somehow actually getting along and learning things about each other

He actually falls for you wowww wowww

But he's lwk traumatized from pomni trying to get close to him that for a long time he ignores it and moves on

And probably forgets about you KIDDING KIDDINGGGG

Something reminds him of his past with both pomni and ribbit and he kinda just breaks down, and you comfort him, and he ends up spilling his heart to you

And then boom yall become a thing

The group actually, at first, thinks you're hypnotized 😔✌️ like wdym you're with HIM

Zooble like pulls you behind them protectively, Ragatha flanking your other side and checking your eyes for a concussion or being hypnotized because god knows what Caine can do

"What did you do to y/n? Spill it before I get Caine, you ###hole!" Jax scoffs, raising his hands in surrender, back arching slightly to lean away from Zooble.

"Oh come on, Zoobie, I'm not that bad! I wouldn't stop that low, sheesh! I'm hurt, truly," Zooble makes a noise that's almost like a growl, glaring at him, while Ragatha busies herself with checking you over.

"Come on, y/n, sweetheart. Look at me. I just need to check something. He didn't do anything, did he? You're okay?" Despite her focus, Ragatha's voice had pitched to a new level of concern, cradling your face in her hands. "Yes, Ragatha, I'm okay—" "Shh, shh, I know."

despite being total opposites, you two are surprisingly healthy for one another

you teach him how to be gentle and kind when it's needed, how to reign in reactions that hurt him and others, and he teaches you how to be angry and how to say no and refuse outlandish requests etc

Those are mainly from NPCS. the cast loves you too much to ever try doing stuff like that to you

Even with how healthy you are for each other, Ragatha and Zooble (and basically everyone) don't approve. You're wayyyy too nice for him

They only kinda start to handle him when you rub off on him and he starts acting a little nicer to them

But you're also there for him in the harder parts of this.

The fact you two will probably never meet in real life, that this is all just some weird reality or whatever, that he fucked up so bad that his friends are gone

Headlines screamed bold numbers on their front pages, recounting the staggering losses like war tallies. One hundred sixty-three lives lost. More than three hundred injured, many still trapped in the slow crawl of recovery, both physically and mentally.

Entire neighborhoods were flattened; blocks of homes are now reduced to hollowed-out skeletons of steel and ash. Landmarks that had once been points of pride for the city—schools, community centers, entire historic districts—lay in ruins, some beyond repair.

Construction sites dotted the landscape in every direction, towering cranes swinging over craters that had once been bustling streets. The city had become a patchwork of scaffolding and debris, dust clouds still clinging to the air as bulldozers cleared what little remained.

The government scrambled to respond, but their words fell like stones into a raging sea.

Their promises of safety, security, and swift rebuilding rang hollow against the grief and fury of the people. Every press conference was met with protests just outside its doors. Candlelight vigils blurred into angry rallies as citizens demanded answers and accountability.

Yet no answers ever came.

The identity of the monster that ravaged their home remained a mystery.

Investigators, scientists, and even military analysts pored over the footage of the attack, but all they had were shaky videos and incomplete witness reports. The creature had left no body, no trace. Nothing but blurred images and destroyed streets.

Still, theories blossomed like wildfire.

Some believed it was a failed government experiment—an escaped bioweapon unleashed by accident and then covered up.

Others whispered of the abyss—a myth spun into something more tangible after seeing its grotesque power firsthand.

And then there were those who believed it wasn’t a monster at all but a cursed human, transformed by unknown forces, doomed to fall beneath their own violent nature.

The debates spiraled endlessly online.

But amid it all, there was one figure the world unanimously turned their praise to.

The Green Ghost.

The vigilante once again saved the city from certain doom; without fear, without hesitation.

His name was plastered across every screen and news ticker for weeks afterward.

"Green Ghost’s Heroism Turns The Tide!"

"Mysterious Savior Rescues City Once More."

Documentaries were made, analyzing every pixelated movement from that night. Reporters begged for interviews no one could give. Murals were painted across the cracked streets, honoring his mask as a symbol of courage.

They called him a hero.

A guardian angel.

The protector of the people.

But not a soul knew the truth behind the mask.

Not a single one saw the weight that still hung heavy over his shoulders—the suffocating, inescapable grief he carried beneath the suit.

Because Kinich didn’t want their praise. He didn’t want the medals they offered in absentia or the way children now wore knock-off masks of his likeness. He didn’t want the parades or the banners or the thank-you letters pouring into his anonymous drop boxes.

Because none of it could change what really happened.

None of it could erase the image burned into his mind—of the friend he couldn’t save.

The friend who dissolved before his very eyes.

The boy whose laugh once filled basketball courts and rooftops alike.

Now, not even his name was allowed to be spoken in the same breath as the incident.

Because somewhere in the weeks following the catastrophe, behind closed doors and beneath layers of government protocols, Sethos's truth was buried.

The decision wasn’t made by the people who knew him best. It wasn’t born from compassion or grief. It was strategy.

Among those who held the authority to make such choices was Candace, an official with long ties to the city’s crisis response and one of the few entrusted with the full, unvarnished truth of that night. She had been there, seated in the high councils, where officials and enforcers whispered in urgent, clipped tones about the identity of the monster and the potential fallout it would unleash.

To the public, the beast remained a nameless horror, an anomaly that vanished with the wind.

But in that room, his name was known.

Candace knew it.

She had known the boy tangentially, through years of connection with his grandfather, Bamoun, a respected figure among the city’s elders, known for his wisdom and sharpness even in his later years.

It was Bamoun who pushed back first when the decision was laid on the table.

He hadn’t needed cameras or press releases to make his case. His grief alone had been enough to fill the room, every line on his weathered face drawn tight with sorrow and quiet rage. He had wanted to speak the truth—not just for his grandson, but for every soul that would one day look upon Sethos’s memory.

His grandson wasn’t a monster.

He was a victim.

A victim of the abyss, of circumstance, of forces too cruel and ancient for anyone to fight off alone.

Bamoun had wanted to tell the world exactly that—to let them see beyond the bloodshed and ruin. To show them that the boy who once shot hoops under streetlights and came home with scraped knees wasn’t the villain their nightmares painted him to be.

But the city didn’t want truth.

Not in its rawest, messiest form.

The officials saw only risk. Chaos. A public already drowning in grief is now handed a face to blame.

They saw the fires that would follow, the riots that would spark, and the fear that would fester deeper than anything they could control. They weighed the damage against the hope of order, and the answer had been clear to them:

Silence.

They convinced Candace. Slowly, methodically. She had resisted at first—there was no denying it—but even her sense of duty couldn’t outmatch the towering weight of what such knowledge could unleash.

They convinced her it was mercy.

That it was better this way.

Better to let the people believe in an anonymous monster than force them to face the far crueler truth that the horror had been born from their own streets. That the creature had been a boy who’d walked among them. Smiled with them. Played with them.

Better to spare the families from knowing their children’s friend had turned into a walking apocalypse.

Better to save the city from devouring itself in guilt and fear.

So the records were sealed.

The reports were scrubbed clean.

Sethos’s name was erased from every file related to the incident, replaced by vague, nameless terminology that kept his memory locked in a vault few would ever open.

And Bamoun?

He stayed quiet.

Not out of agreement.

Not out of acceptance.

But because, in the end, what was left for him to fight for?

He was an old man, sitting in a city that no longer recognized the boy he had raised. He watched the world move on with its sanitized narrative, watched the murals of the Green Ghost rise across the streets, and watched strangers light candles at vigils that spoke of heroes but never of the boy they’d lost.

And in his heart, he grieved.

Quietly.

Privately.

Because he knew the truth, even if the city refused to carry it.

His grandson wasn’t a monster.

He never had been.

But now, no one would ever know.

Amid the chaos that followed the rooftop’s collapse, when the smoke still lingered heavy in the air and the city remained gripped by sirens and panic, she had already been slipping away.

Her body had simply given out.

Too much.

Too much fear. Too much grief. Too many wounds pressing down all at once.

It wasn’t dramatic. There had been no scream, no sudden fall.

She had collapsed into herself, trembling and breathless, her sobs slowly giving way to empty silence as her body began to shut down from the sheer weight of it all.

Her skin had been pale, streaked with tears and specks of dirt, bruises blooming across her arms and legs from her desperate escape through rubble and flame. Blood still ran from a shallow cut on her forehead where falling debris had struck her earlier, now drying against her temple in thin, dark streaks.

Her breaths had grown shallow.

Weak.

And then, just as her body slumped against the cracked rooftop, a shadow moved toward her.

Kinich—still masked in the battered guise of the Green Ghost—had been there in an instant.

There had been no time for hesitation.

With shaking hands still dusted with soot and battle scars, he had scooped her up from the broken ground, cradling her limp body against him. Her weight was light in his arms, and her body was cold with exhaustion.

Without another glance toward the shattered rooftop or the fading echoes of what had transpired there, he launched into the night once more.

He moved swiftly, the city rushing past in blurred streaks of green and black.

Down ruined streets, through smoke-choked alleys, swinging past shattered windows and bent steel beams.

He carried her through the heart of devastation, his heart hammering in his chest with every second that passed.

When the hospital’s bright lights finally appeared in the distance, he didn’t hesitate.

He landed hard outside the emergency entrance, his legs nearly buckling under both the weight of her and the overwhelming exhaustion crushing down on him.

The emergency response teams were already swarming the area, tending to wounded civilians and directing incoming stretchers. The second they spotted him, they rushed to meet him.

He didn’t say a word.

He simply handed her over, careful with her fragile, unconscious form, before watching her disappear into the blur of medics and nurses.

Inside, everything moved in rapid, frantic motion.

The emergency room lights were harsh, sterile white against the dark smudges of ash on her skin. Nurses worked quickly to stabilize her, their gloved hands securing an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose as they wheeled her down the hall. Monitors beeped in frantic rhythms, tracking her weak pulse.

One of the emergency responders dialed her mother’s number without delay.

And somewhere across the city, her mother’s world came crashing down the moment she picked up that call.

She had arrived at the hospital in a rush, her face streaked with tears, the panic in her every step making her stumble through the crowded hallways. The moment her eyes landed on her daughter—unconscious, hooked to wires, and wrapped in white bandages as she was rushed toward another room—her legs nearly gave out beneath her.

She broke down at the sight.

The grief was immediate, raw, and impossible to contain.

She cried as she tried to follow the medical team, her cries muffled by the crowd and drowned out by the noise of the busy ward.

Doctors had to gently restrain her, ushering her to wait as they closed the doors to tend to her daughter’s wounds in privacy.

And somewhere nearby, tucked in the corner of that cold hospital waiting room, Kinich sat.

The disguise was gone now; he shed it in an alleyway on his way inside, leaving behind the mask, the gauntlets, and the scorched suit that had made him unrecognizable.

Now, he sat alone, a hood pulled low over his face, his hands still trembling faintly in his lap.

He hadn’t left.

Not after everything.

He had watched her mother arrive. Watched the devastation ripple through her face. Watched her crumble under the weight of it all.

And he stayed there—silent, unmoving—carrying his own unbearable grief.

He kept his distance, seated on the farthest bench in the waiting room, hood drawn low over his head, staring blankly at the floor. His hands were clasped together tightly, knuckles pale from the pressure, as though holding them steady would somehow anchor the storm raging inside him.

But despite his efforts to remain unnoticed, her mother saw him.

She had been sitting nearby, slouched and weary after hours of crying, her eyes swollen and red from fear and exhaustion. Yet in the heavy silence that followed, as she wiped her cheeks and lifted her gaze, her tired eyes landed on him: this quiet, withdrawn boy seated alone, too still, too quiet for someone his age.

There was something in the way he sat, hunched over and rigid, that struck her heart immediately.

Without hesitation, she pushed herself to her feet, steadying her trembling hands as she approached him.

Kinich didn’t notice her at first; he was too lost in the weight of his own thoughts. But when she stopped beside him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, he stiffened slightly beneath her touch.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t discomfort.

It was something else, something heavier.

Concern flickered across her face. Her instincts, sharpened by years of motherhood, recognized it at once: the quiet, unbearable grief of someone far too young to carry such sorrow.

She crouched down beside him, her movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a wounded child. She didn’t pry. She didn’t press. She simply checked him over, her gaze soft but firm, scanning his face for signs of injury.

Her fingers brushed gently against his cheek, as though she were wiping away dirt or checking for bruises. Her voice stayed low, motherly, and laced with quiet worry. She asked if he was alright—if he was hurt anywhere—her words wrapped in that instinctive care only a mother could offer, especially in the face of such a devastating night.

Kinich’s throat tightened. He barely managed a stiff, shallow nod.

But her worry didn’t stop there.

Her voice softened further, almost hesitant, as she asked about Sethos.

She wanted to know if he was safe too. If he’d made it out. If both of them had survived the nightmare that swallowed the city.

The name struck him like a blade slipping beneath armor.

Sethos.

It hit too hard, too suddenly.

Kinich’s shoulders tensed under his jacket, his hands curling even tighter in his lap. He flinched—just slightly—but enough for her to notice.

Enough for her to see the subtle way his head lowered, as if to hide the pain twisting through his features.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

He couldn’t even look at her.

But that silence said more than words ever could.

Her heart sank instantly.

She recognized the truth in the way his eyes fell to the floor, in the tightness of his expression, and in the heavy way his breath shuddered through him.

And just like that, she knew.

Even without him saying it—without hearing the confirmation aloud—she knew.

Sethos was gone.

Her chest tightened, the weight of it crushing her all at once. But she didn’t let herself break. Not here. Not now. Not when there's a child in front of her who needs more comfort than her.

Instead, her gaze softened even further, and her hand gently reached for Kinich’s arm—this time, not to check for wounds, but simply to hold him.

Without a word, she pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his hunched shoulders.

She didn’t ask for permission.

She just held him.

Held him the way a mother would hold her own child after a nightmare. Held him with quiet, steady comfort, even as her own heart fractured under the weight of her realization.

Kinich froze at first, caught off guard by the sudden warmth of her embrace. His breath hitched, and he stiffened beneath her arms, but she didn’t let go.

She simply stayed there, cradling him with quiet strength.

Because she understood.

She understood what it meant for a boy like him to carry the weight of losing one friend and possibly losing the other in just a single, cruel night.

To watch helplessly as everything crumbled around him.

She knew the grief he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

So she let him grieve in silence, offering what little comfort she could, her own tears falling quietly as she held him.

In that moment, neither of them spoke. Then a few days passed; the hospital was quieter at night.

Gone was the flurry of nurses and urgent footsteps that had filled the hallways just hours ago. The bright, harsh lights had been dimmed, replaced by soft amber glows that barely reached the corners of the walls. Outside, rain whispered faintly against the windows—light and steady, as if the sky itself mourned alongside the city.

Kinich walked those halls in silence. During that time, he couldn't stay before the doctor could announce the current state of his best friend because [Y/N]'s mother insisted that he should take a rest and go home. He couldn't even argue with her suggestion because he was indeed tired and emotionally drained from the events of the day.

Now, his steps were slow and deliberate, his heartbeat heavy in his chest as he approached her room. He stopped just outside the doorway, staring at the faint crack of light seeping out from the room. For a long moment, he simply stood there, his hand hovering near the doorframe, unable to move.

Then—slowly, as if pulled by something far stronger than his will—he slipped inside.

The room was still, save for the quiet beeping of the heart monitor and the low hiss of the oxygen machine. The curtains were drawn, muting the moonlight to a faint silver glow that painted everything in soft, pale shades.

And there she was.

Lying in the hospital bed, tangled in thin white sheets, her face calm yet pale. The bruises still stained her skin—soft purples and faded reds along her cheekbones and arms, remnants of everything she had endured. A fresh bandage crossed her forehead, just above her brow, and her breathing came slow and steady beneath the oxygen mask.

Kinich’s heart twisted.

She looked so fragile like this.

So painfully fragile.

He moved toward her carefully, every step weighed down by the heaviness in his chest. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Words would shatter the fragile quiet between them, and he wasn’t ready to let them break.

Instead, he simply sat beside her bed, lowering himself into the chair tucked nearby.

He watched her.

Every detail. Every slow breath. Every slight twitch of her fingers as she rested.

And in that quiet, he let the truth rise up inside him, suffocating and sharp.

He’d almost lost her.

He’d seen her slip away in his arms, her body cold, her heartbeat weakening, her mind breaking beneath the weight of grief.

He had saved her physically, yes.

But even now, sitting here, he wasn’t sure he could save her from everything else.

His hand hovered over hers, hesitating before slowly resting near her fingertips—not quite touching, but close enough to feel the faint warmth of her skin.

There was a time when he’d believed he could protect them both—her and Sethos. That somehow, he could carry the weight of both worlds on his shoulders.

But now…

Now, there were cracks everywhere.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest, his throat tightening.

Somewhere deep in his heart, he’d always known what he felt for her.

The lingering glances. The way his heart picked up when she laughed. The way her smile softened even the darkest corners of his life.

But he had never imagined it like this, sitting at her bedside, wishing desperately that she’d wake up and never knowing if she'd even want him around when she learned everything.

His gaze fell to her face, tracing the soft curve of her lips and the flutter of her lashes as she slept.

There was something unbearably intimate about this moment—about watching her like this, knowing she couldn’t see the way his expression softened, the way his own heart ached for her.

A quiet, unspoken confession lingered in the space between them.

He didn’t deserve her.

Not after all this.

And yet, here he was, still unable to leave her side.

His fingers brushed against hers, just barely—a ghost of a touch, so light it could have been imagined. But the moment it happened, something in him gave way.

He wanted to hold her hand.

He wanted to take her pain, her grief, her nightmares—and carry them all for her.

Because somewhere along the way, this wasn’t just about protecting her anymore.

It was about loving her.

Quietly. Silently.

Even if she never knew.

Even if she would never forgive him if she ever learned the truth.

He closed his eyes, leaning forward slightly, his forehead nearly resting against the edge of her bed.

He stayed like that for a moment, forehead hovering near her hand, the quiet of the room pressing down on him like the weight of the city itself. His pulse was steady, but there was an ache beneath it, a dull throb that hadn’t left since that night—since he watched her break in ways no one ever should.

And yet, as his eyes opened again, he knew it wasn’t enough to sit there in silence.

Something deeper stirred inside him, pulling him beyond the fear, beyond the guilt that screamed he didn’t deserve to be near her.

His hand trembled as he slowly sat up from the chair, his every movement weighed with hesitation, with self-loathing that clawed at his chest.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

His heart ached—no, it yearned—with something deeper than grief.

It was selfish. He knew it was selfish.

But right then, watching her sleep, her face soft despite the bruises, her breath steady despite the storm that had torn her world apart—he could no longer pretend that he didn’t love her.

He reached out with a shaky hand, his fingers hovering just above her cheek.

He shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

But still… slowly, reverently, as if touching something sacred, he let his fingertips graze the side of her face.

Warm.

So warm, even after everything.

He let his palm cup her gently, cradling her cheek in his calloused hand, feeling the delicate rise and fall of her breathing under his touch.

His thumb brushed faintly against her temple, tracing the edge of the soft bandage there.

Even now, unconscious and broken, she looked like something he could never have.

And maybe that was why it hurt so much.

His chest tightened as he leaned down, breath ghosting over her skin, heart pounding loud enough that he wondered if it would wake her.

He pressed the lightest, most fragile kiss to her forehead.

A fleeting touch—barely there—but enough to burn through him like wildfire.

And as he pulled back, his voice escaped in a low, cracked murmur, only for her ears.

"…I’m sorry."

Sorry for everything.

Sorry for not saving Sethos.

Sorry for letting her suffer.

Sorry for loving her when he couldn't allow himself to.

He let the words linger, the weight of them hanging in the air like smoke.

Then, as if afraid to tempt fate any further, he slowly pulled away, releasing her from his touch, his heart dragging behind every inch of distance he placed between them.

His gaze lingered on her face, memorizing every fragile detail one last time. And slowly, with trembling fingers, Kinich reached inside his jacket.

He pulled out a folded note, creased at the edges from how many times he'd taken it out and hesitated, wondering whether he should leave it at all. He had written it before coming here, unsure if he’d ever gather the courage to hand it over.

It wasn’t from the Green Ghost.

It wasn’t a hero’s farewell.

It was from him—plain, vulnerable, and selfish.

He stared at it for a heartbeat longer, debating whether he had the right to let her see this part of him.

But in the end, his heart chose for him.

Quietly, he set it down beside her, tucking it gently under her hand where she might find it when she woke. His fingertips lingered on the paper for a moment too long—hesitating, reluctant to sever this last connection—but eventually, he let go.

No more lingering. No more delaying.

This had to be goodbye.

Without another glance back, Kinich stood and left the room, the door clicking softly behind him as he disappeared into the dim, empty halls of the hospital—just another shadow swallowed by the night.

—

Time had passed, more than most would have expected.

Years slipped by, marked by curtain calls and the glow of stage lights, by applause echoing through grand theaters that once felt worlds away from the streets where everything shattered.

[Y/N] had become a name people admired, a celebrated Broadway actress, hailed for her emotional performances and grace. Headlines often carried her name beside glowing reviews and sold-out shows. Her face adorned posters along boulevards, smiling from marbled theater walls, forever caught in moments of elegance and light.

But no matter how far she’d risen, there was one thing she never outran.

The hospital room.

That night.

The letter.

Even now, amidst the chaos of her dressing room after another standing ovation, her thoughts sometimes drifted back to it, the note that waited for her the day she awoke from that unbearable slumber.

It had been tucked beneath her fingertips when she stirred awake, her body still weak from exhaustion and bruises wrapped tight in fresh bandages. Her mother had been there, relieved beyond words, but it was the folded paper resting against her palm that stole her breath first.

She remembered the tremble in her hands as she unfolded it, the weight in her chest heavier than any wound. The handwriting was familiar: sharp, steady strokes she’d seen countless times in the margins of Kinich’s old notebooks. But there was something different about it here. No bravado. No jokes.

Just raw honesty, stripped bare.

"If you’re reading this, then I already left. I don’t deserve to stay. There are some people in this world who leave nothing but ruin in their wake, no matter how hard they try to save what matters. I know that now. I was too late to save him. Too slow to stop him. And too selfish to walk away before everything fell apart. I broke my promise to you. And I can’t face you knowing that I failed twice—first as your friend, then as the coward who couldn’t stay. You have every right to hate me. You should. But even if you do… I want you to live. I want you to survive this. Because someone like you was never meant to be trapped in the ruins we left behind. Please keep moving forward. Please keep shining.

This city needs your light far more than it ever needed mine.

—Kinich"

The words had shattered something inside her that day.

Not just because he’d vanished without goodbye, but because she could feel every crack of guilt and sorrow pressed between those lines, every ounce of self-loathing he had drowned himself in.

He wasn’t just leaving her.

He was running—from himself, from what he’d done, from what he thought he was.

A farewell from a broken boy who believed he didn’t deserve a place beside her anymore.

She had hated him at first.

She hated how he left. How he disappeared without giving her a choice—how he thought it was his decision alone to make.

And for a long time, it ate at her. It left her hollow and angry and grief-stricken all over again, mourning both Sethos and Kinich as though she had lost them on the same night.

She’d cried herself to sleep more times than she could count after reading it.

But as the years passed, something shifted.

She began to understand.

She’d tasted the sharpness of loss herself and had learned that some pain can’t be carried in the open, no matter how many friends or stages surround her. Kinich’s words were not abandonment.

They were the last act of someone breaking under their own heartache.

That letter didn’t chain her to grief.

It handed her a key to grow beyond it.

And so she had.

She finished college with flying colors, as she pushed herself harder and devoted herself to the arts that had once been her refuge even before that nightmare. She’d risen from a girl crushed by tragedy to a woman revered for her craft.

But she never forgot where it began.

Not a day passed that she didn’t carry them both in the quiet places of her heart.

That’s why, after her final curtain call that season, she found herself standing outside the weathered old house tucked in the quieter edges of the city.

Sethos’s childhood home.

Bamoun still lived there.

The man had aged in those years—his back slightly more bent, his hair far grayer—but his eyes still held that sharp, dignified kindness. He welcomed her inside with a quiet nod, and she stepped through the doorway as though she were walking back into the past itself.

The house smelled the same.

Faint sandalwood and old leather, with hints of smoke from the little clay incense burner always resting on the mantle. The same worn furniture, the same rows of books and basketball trophies gathering dust.

In the corner, a framed photograph remained untouched—a young Sethos, beaming bright with his crooked grin, clutching a basketball with Kinich frowning at his side. She stood in the background in that photo too, blurry but unmistakable.

It nearly undid her.

But she stood tall, offering a soft, respectful bow to Bamoun, who simply watched her with knowing eyes.

She didn’t need words. Her presence alone said everything.

She stayed for a long time, paying her respects in the quiet of that house, as Bamoun sat nearby, their grief shared in the silence. Using their delicate time to chatter about recollecting the past memories of the trio—where they had been the happiest at that moment—then talking about the possibilities of scenarios if Sethos didn't have a cruel fate wherein he was likely to be a professional varsity basketball player, kind enough to coach little kids in the neighborhood, and probably graduated with flying colors with his friends.

It brought a bittersweet comfort to reminisce about the potential future that was stolen from Sethos, imagining the joy and success he could have experienced.

—

The dressing room was still bustling—costumes being packed away, makeup wiped off with hurried hands, and laughter spilling from every corner as her fellow performers chatted excitedly about the afterparty. Bouquets lined the room, congratulatory cards spilling over tables, some with her name written in bold, swirling letters.

She smiled, polite and gracious, as always.

But her heart wasn’t there.

"Come on, you have to join us tonight!" one of her co-actors called, beaming as they pulled on their coat. "You were incredible! First round's on me."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Not tonight," she said, tucking her belongings neatly into her bag. "I've got… other plans."

They teased her for being too mysterious, joking about secret lovers or quiet getaways, but she only smiled, letting them believe whatever they wanted.

Truthfully, there were no grand plans. No hidden romance.

Only a place she’d been avoiding for far too long.

She slipped out quietly once the crowd thinned, blending into the quiet night beyond the theater. The streets were still alive with neon lights and late-night chatter, but she barely noticed as she walked, her pace steady, purposeful.

Her car was parked just a few streets away, waiting like a silent promise. She drove with the windows down, letting the cool night air wash over her, the city slowly giving way to quieter roads as she approached the old neighborhood.

It didn’t take long to find it again.

The school stood like a fossil from another era—gates rusted, windows boarded up in places, and paint peeling beneath years of neglect. No children’s laughter here anymore. No teachers’ voices echoing through the halls.

Only memories.

She parked nearby, slipping out of the car with a quiet breath. The air was different here—still, almost reverent.

Her heels clicked softly against the cracked pavement as she made her way toward the old courtyard, passing familiar landmarks swallowed by time.

And then she saw it.

The tree.

Still standing, still stubbornly alive despite everything else crumbling around it.

Her steps slowed.

This was why she’d come.

This wasn’t the most proper place for a memorial. It wasn’t a cemetery or a shrine. But this—this was their place. The spot where Sethos’s laughter had once rung loudest, where Kinich’s quiet presence had always lingered nearby.

Where her heart had been unknowingly left behind.

She approached slowly, eyes softening at the sight of faint traces of old petals near the base, remnants of the bouquet she’d left here last year, now withered and scattered by the wind.

Carefully, she knelt down, laying the new bouquet in their place.

Wildflowers again.

She always brought wildflowers.

Her voice was quiet as she spoke, a private confession only the night could hear.

"I know this probably looks ridiculous," she said, smiling faintly. "But this is still where you’re clearest to me, Sethos."

The words kept flowing—updates about her life, about her performances, about the cities she’d traveled to and the awards she’d collected, though none of it ever seemed to matter as much in this place.

And then her voice faltered, softer now, tinged with sadness.

"I still haven't been able to reach Kinich."

Her gaze drifted toward the empty space beside the tree where he used to sit, legs lazily stretched out, pretending not to listen.

"His number's been gone for years now. His apartment, too. Like he vanished without a trace."

She swallowed, fingers curling slightly in the grass.

"But I hope… I hope he's out there somewhere, eating well, laughing sometimes, and finding peace, even if I wasn't part of it."

She forced a small laugh, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"And… yeah. I never got to tell him either. Not back then. Not before he left."

Her heart ached with the weight of it, but she didn’t cry.

Not here.

Instead, she sat there a little longer, her fingers trailing along the worn bark as if it could somehow bring her back to those afternoons when everything was simpler.

The night deepened around her, quiet and still.

And it even settled into a hushed, heavy quiet by the time he approached. Kinich moved like a shadow through the abandoned streets, steps soundless against the cracked pavement. He knew this path by heart—every corner, every rusted gate, every loose stone along the sidewalk. He had walked it countless times since leaving the city, always in secret.

He didn’t visit during the day. Never when people could see.

Only at night, when even the ghosts seemed too weary to stir.

And tonight was no different, at least that’s what he thought.

He’d expected the courtyard to be empty, just as it always was after her yearly visit. She was consistent, after all. She would come, leave her flowers, whisper her stories to the wind, then disappear before the hour grew too late.

But as he neared the old campus, something felt… off.

He slowed, his breath catching faintly in his throat.

Light.

Soft and faint, but there—a figure beneath the tree, seated quietly in the dark.

His heart stopped.

It was her.

Still here.

She sat curled near the base of the tree, her back resting against the rough bark, her head tilted slightly down as she traced her fingers along the roots. Her hair glimmered under the thin sliver of moonlight, framing her face in soft shadows.

Kinich froze where he stood, half-shielded by the crooked fence.

He hadn’t been seen yet. He should leave—turn back, vanish down the alleyway like he always did.

But his legs wouldn’t move.

Instead, he watched.

Watched as she sat there, unmoving, the bouquet freshly placed at the base of the tree. He could hear her quiet breaths, soft and steady, carrying with them the weight of something unspoken.

His chest tightened.

She was never this early before. Never stayed long enough for the air to grow this still, this heavy.

Maybe she was waiting for something.

Or someone.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, cursing the irony.

Of all nights for her to linger… it had to be tonight.

When he finally dared to open them again, his gaze softened.

She hadn’t changed—not really.

Older, yes. Her features are more refined, touched by years of success and grief alike. But beneath it all, she was still the same girl who had once sat beneath this very tree with two boys who thought the world was theirs.

To him, she's still more beautiful than ever.

And here she was—alone now—carrying both their ghosts.

Something cracked inside him.

Before he realized it, his feet moved forward.

Quiet steps.

Careful breaths.

She still hadn’t noticed him yet, lost in her thoughts.

It wasn’t until he was almost near enough to touch the tree himself that her head lifted, her gaze sharp and alert.

Their eyes met.

Her breath hitched, stunned.

He stopped in his tracks, fully revealed under the moonlight.

The world seemed to shrink around her.

For a long, breathless moment, [Y/N] couldn't move—couldn't even think—staring at the man standing just a few steps away, half-wreathed in the shadows of the tree branches. Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, disbelieving, confused, and hopeful in the most fragile way.

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be him.

But it was.

Older now, yes—his face sharper, his jaw more defined, shadows clinging beneath his eyes like remnants of sleepless nights—but still Kinich. Still the same boy she’d known, though weighed down by the years between them. His hair was a little longer, brushed back messily, but his gaze…

That gaze had not changed.

Those familiar, dark eyes locked with hers, unreadable but intense, filled with something she couldn’t yet name, something ancient, almost weary, yet steady.

Her breath shook as she slowly pushed herself up from the roots of the tree, legs unsteady beneath her. She couldn’t tell if it was from the cold of the night or the sheer force of emotion that flooded her chest, but her knees nearly buckled as she rose.

She took a tentative step forward.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink—just watched, silent as ever.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Her hands hovered up between them, trembling despite herself, as though she feared he would vanish the second she touched him. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached toward him, her fingertips barely brushing through the space between them, afraid to shatter this fragile reality.

The pads of her fingers hovered near his face—his cheekbones, his jaw, the faint scar near his temple that hadn’t been there before.

He was real.

Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to make contact. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart threatening to collapse under the weight of everything she wanted to ask, everything she wanted to scream, and everything she wanted to feel.

How many times had she imagined this moment in her dreams? In the late hours of sleepless nights, curled up in empty hotel rooms, wishing she could turn back time to stop him from leaving?

And now here he was.

Flesh and bone.

Scarred but alive.

Her fingers finally grazed the edge of his cheek, feather-light, as though she were afraid he might break beneath her touch. The warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips nearly undid her completely.

Her breath hitched. She couldn’t stop it.

"Kinich…"

The name barely slipped past her lips, but it was enough to crack the air between them. Her voice trembled, thick with disbelief, relief, and something dangerously close to grief.

Her thumb lingered near his jaw, tracing over the faint stubble there, almost marveling at how much had changed—how much time had passed since she’d last seen his face without a mask or a disguise.

His eyes flickered faintly at her touch, but he still didn’t move away.

He just stood there, letting her feel for herself that he was real.

That he was here.

Her hands were shaking now, openly trembling as she cupped his face more fully, as if grounding herself through him.

"You’re really here," she whispered, barely breathing the words. "After everything…"

Tears began to spill, slow at first but quickly overwhelming, streaming down her cheeks in hot, unchecked rivers. She couldn’t hold it back anymore, not after everything. All the years she had spent holding herself together, smiling through the ache, convincing herself that she had already accepted the past. It all unraveled in an instant, leaving her raw and trembling in front of him.

Her hands slid from his face to his shoulders, gripping tightly—as if afraid he would vanish again—and then she pulled him into her.

She collapsed against him, burying her face into the space between his shoulder and neck as a sob ripped from her chest. It wasn’t graceful or quiet. It was shuddering, broken, filled with years of longing, betrayal, grief, and relief all tangled together.

Kinich’s body tensed in the sudden contact.

For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, his arms stiff at his sides, muscles wound tight beneath her touch. He wasn’t used to this anymore. He wasn’t sure he deserved it. Her warmth against him, her scent so achingly familiar, the sound of her crying against his collar, it rattled him to the bone.

But then—slowly, hesitantly—his arms lifted.

Awkward at first, unsure.

One hand hovered near her back, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether it was right to hold her.

But she clung to him tighter, her cries muffled but desperate as her fists curled into the fabric of his shirt.

And that was all it took.

The fight drained out of him.

Kinich’s arms wrapped around her fully, pulling her close—gently, but firmly—until there was no space left between them. His hands were steady now, one pressing softly against the back of her head, the other resting between her shoulder blades, as if shielding her from everything, even now.

And gods, how he had missed this.

Her warmth. Her scent. The way she fit so naturally against him, like this was where they were always meant to be.

It hurt.

It burned.

But he couldn’t let go.

She sobbed harder, pouring everything into him—her grief over Sethos, the pain of Kinich’s sudden disappearance, and the weight she’d carried alone all this time. Her tears soaked into his shirt, but she didn’t care. She just needed to hold him. To feel him. To know he was finally here.

Her words came out between gasps, muffled against his chest.

"Why… why did you leave?" she cried, her voice cracked and breathless. "Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why—why did you make me grieve for you too?"

Kinich closed his eyes, pressing his lips into a thin line, but still said nothing.

He knew there weren’t words to fix this. No apology is deep enough. No excuse worthy of the hurt he’d caused her.

But still… he held her tighter.

Letting her shake in his arms, letting her cry until her voice grew hoarse and her body weakened from the storm of it all.

Her cries slowly softened, tapering into quiet, broken gasps against his chest. Her hands loosened their grip on his shirt, her body sagging from sheer exhaustion—physically, emotionally, everything.

But she didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

Kinich held her steady, his fingers unconsciously curling into the fabric of her coat, reluctant to let this fragile moment end.

He could feel her breaths, warm and uneven, against the hollow of his throat.

When she finally spoke again, it was hoarse—barely a whisper.

"…Say something."

Her voice was thin and shaking but steady enough to make the words sting.

She didn’t plead.

She didn’t ask him to apologize or explain.

She just wanted something.

Anything.

Kinich’s throat tightened, but he swallowed the lump threatening to rise.

He knew there was no easy way to answer.

But after everything—after the years of distance, the nights of guilt clawing inside him—he owed her at least this.

His voice came low and rough from disuse, but it carried the full weight of everything left unsaid between them. "I thought… if I stayed away," he said quietly, his breath grazing her temple, "you’d be better off."

His words were soft, but they sank between them like lead.

She stiffened faintly in his arms but didn’t interrupt.

He kept going, his voice steady but distant, as if each word had been rehearsed a thousand times in his head.

"I wasn’t strong enough to face you back then," he admitted, the confession tasting bitter on his tongue. "Not after what happened… not after what I did."

He finally let his eyes fall shut, the old guilt pressing down on him again.

"I knew you’d wait," he said, almost like a sigh. "That’s what terrified me most."

A long pause.

He felt her breath catch—barely noticeable—but she didn’t pull away.

And in that silence, he allowed himself to say the one thing he had buried the deepest.

"…I missed you."

Simple words.

But they tore something open in both of them.

They weren’t dramatic or grand—there was no need for that between them.

They were raw.

Honest.

Undeniable.

His arms tightened, just slightly, as if anchoring himself to her before he finally added, even softer:

"More than you’ll ever know."

His voice broke faintly at the end—not loud, not obvious—but enough for her to hear the cracks behind the calm facade.

Enough for her to feel just how much it had cost him to stay away.

Her heart clenched at his words.

Something in the way he said it—the quiet devastation behind his voice, the unspoken years of regret woven into each syllable—unraveled her again.

She felt her throat tighten painfully, her chest growing heavier by the second.

And before she could stop herself, the tears returned, hot, silent, and slipping down her cheeks with renewed force. It wasn’t loud this time. No sharp sobs, no gasping breaths. Just quiet tears, falling freely, as though her heart had been cracked open all over again by those simple words.

She tightened her arms around him instinctively, pulling him closer with a trembling grip, as if trying to shield him from the world, or perhaps herself from everything else. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, knuckles white from how hard she held on, and her forehead pressed to the curve of his shoulder.

Neither of them spoke for a long while.

There were no words needed.

She could feel the way he held her back—still firm, still steady—but there was something different now. He wasn’t awkward anymore. He wasn’t holding back or hesitating.

He was here—present, fully, completely—letting himself stay.

The minutes slipped by in their quiet embrace, the night air cool around them but the space between their bodies warm from shared grief.

And in that stillness, a fragile but undeniable thought bloomed within her.

She didn’t want to let him walk away again.

With a soft, trembling breath, she finally lifted her head—just enough to glance up at him, her eyes glassy and rimmed red from crying.

She saw it again, up close—the sorrow in his face, the way his features had sharpened over the years, but still carried that familiar gentleness deep beneath the lines of regret.

Her voice came out quiet, barely more than a breath.

"…Stay."

The word hung between them like a delicate thread.

He looked at her, unmoving—but she could see the shift in his eyes, the faint flicker of uncertainty, of hesitation.

She didn’t give him the chance to retreat.

Her hand slid down from his shoulder, her fingers curling gently around his wrist—grounding him.

Her next words carried no expectation, no weight of guilt or obligation.

Just a quiet offer. An invitation.

"…Mourn with me."

Her voice cracked at the edges, thick with lingering tears—but there was something steady beneath it. A quiet resilience born from all the years she had endured this grief alone.

She wasn’t asking him to fix it.

She wasn’t asking him to stay forever.

She was asking him—just this once—not to run.

To share this moment with her.

To remember him together.

Her gaze softened, and she gave the faintest tug at his wrist—not demanding, simply guiding—as she glanced toward the old tree, where the faint remnants of the flowers she’d left still lay scattered among the roots.

His eyes followed her motion, and his breath seemed to catch.

The weight of everything they had lost was right there, just a few steps away.

For a moment, Kinich didn’t move.

But then—slowly—he let her guide him forward.

Step by step, side by side, until they stood together at the base of the tree, facing the quiet, worn memorial that only the two of them could truly understand.

She sank to her knees, fingers gently brushing the wilted petals, her other hand never leaving his.

And for the first time in years, Kinich knelt beside her—not as a masked vigilante, not as a ghost from the past.

Just himself.

The boy who had once laughed under this very tree.

The boy who had run away.

And now, the boy who finally stayed.

They sat in quiet mourning, their shoulders brushing, hands loosely intertwined, as the wind moved softly through the leaves above, whispering the names of the ones they could never forget.

[Y/N] kept her gaze on the small, withered petals at their feet, her fingers gently tracing the rough edges of the bark as if committing every scar of the tree to memory. Kinich remained at her side, silent, his hand still loosely tangled with hers, his thumb occasionally brushing against her knuckles, absentminded but steady, as though neither of them dared to break the fragile peace between them.

Above them, the branches swayed faintly in the wind, the soft rustle of leaves whispering through the night air, carrying with them the memories of long-forgotten laughter and youthful promises.

Neither of them spoke.

In this quiet moment, grief wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. It still lingered, yes—etched deep into their bones—but it had softened around the edges. It changed into something gentler, something more bearable now that it was finally shared.

As the wind stirred again, stronger this time, something subtle shifted between the leaves overhead.

A stray basketball, worn and faded from age, rolled out from the thick grass nearby—a ball that hadn’t been there earlier, its surface marked by scuffs and signatures long forgotten.

It stopped at the edge of their feet, gently rocking before settling still.

Neither of them moved at first—both staring at the object with wide, disbelieving eyes.

And then… as if in response to their quiet astonishment, a soft, playful breeze swept past them once more—lifting a few stray petals into the air, sending them twirling lazily between the branches above.

Somewhere in that breeze, there was a faint warmth. A quiet presence, lingering but not heavy.

If either of them listened closely enough, they might’ve sworn they heard it—

A quiet laugh.

Light.

Familiar.

The kind of laugh that once echoed across rooftops and basketball courts alike. A laugh filled with mischief and sunlit joy, as if the owner of it was still watching from somewhere just beyond reach, grinning that crooked grin of his.

Watching them.

Pleased.

Content.

Happy to see the two friends he’d cherished most finally together again.

And just like that, the breeze faded, leaving behind only the soft rustle of leaves and the quiet weight of peace settling gently over their shoulders.

Kinich let out a slow breath, eyes soft as he gazed upward.

Beside him, [Y/N] finally smiled—small, faint, but real—as she looked at the worn basketball resting near their feet.

We're together once more.

A long, tortured sound—like a beast mortally wounded—echoed from its core. The rooftop pitched just slightly to the right, and her shoes scraped against the broken concrete, trying to keep balance. Hair whipped across her face, stuck to her blood-smeared skin. Her lungs burned. Her ears rang. But she refused to close her eyes.

She couldn’t.

Not when she was staring at a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

Because what unfolded before her eyes was not just chaos; it was grief in motion. Two bodies locked in a war that neither wanted but couldn’t escape. The city skyline burned in the background, and ash swirled in the wind like snowfall from hell.

The Green Ghost moved with speed that was nearly impossible to track.

His suit—a sleek, pitch-dark weave with glowing, pixel-green veins coursing through its threads—hugged every twist and leap like a second skin. Much like the vigilante he was often compared to, he moved like a dancer on broken glass—limber, reactive, always flipping and rebounding off collapsing beams with last-second precision.

But it wasn't as perfect as it used to be.

The once-flawless grappling swings now stuttered, each arc slightly less clean than the last. His flips were slower. His landings are heavier. When he fired his pixelated grappler, it dragged just a beat too late, forcing him to overcorrect midair. His silhouette shimmered at the edges, static lines breaking through his outline like a weakening hologram.

Meanwhile, the beast…

He didn’t tire.

He was gaining.

Each of his attacks now had rhythm—a cruel, terrifying beat. He lunged, clawed, landed, and forced Kinich back another few feet, again and again. It was like watching a tide rising, slowly washing away everything in its path. Even the Green Ghost couldn’t outpace it.

One slash nearly caught his torso.

He twisted hard midair, barely dodging the fatal arc, but the force of Sethos’s blow sent him spinning out of control. His shoulder slammed into a rusted rooftop pipe, the metal buckling under his weight with a harsh, echoing crunch. Sparks scattered like fireflies as the impact short-circuited the pixelated energy nodes in his suit, tiny green glitches flickering across the limbs of his disguise.

He hit the ground hard—tumbling, rolling, and skidding across the cracked rooftop surface until he came to a stop near the western ledge, a weak cough shaking through his ribs. One gauntleted hand dug into the rubble to push himself up, but the arm was shaking, and the grappling mechanism hissed, overcharged and glitching from the earlier blows.

The once-smooth motions of the Green Ghost were jagged, faltering. Even his breathing, barely audible beneath the voice-modulated mask, had turned ragged.

That's where Sethos spotted an opening.

And he seized that opportunity.

A snarl tore from his throat—guttural, animalistic—as his clawed limbs surged forward, preparing to end it. To end him. The ground cracked beneath his momentum. His golden abyssal eye gleamed like a brand against his monstrous face. Muscles coiled, legs tense.

But before he could pounce—

Clang.

A pipe, half-loosened from the last explosion, tumbled from above and struck him square across the temple.

The impact wasn’t fatal—not even close—but it stunned him.

Sethos staggered. His head snapped sideways. His monstrous claws clenched reflexively, scraping into the rooftop like talons through bone. A growl bubbled in his throat, sharp and disoriented.

And then—he looked up.

And his glowing, fragmented gaze locked with hers. The wind howled between them. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed like a ghost mourning the living. The fires on the rooftop crackled and hissed, licking the broken air like tongues of wrath.

[Y/N] had frozen in place near the door, framed by a halo of red-orange light from the fires behind her. Her bruised face was dirtied with soot and blood, hair tangled and wind-whipped. The second their eyes met, her breath caught. Her heart nearly stopped.

For a moment, time slowed.

And then Kinich looked up as his body screamed in protest and followed Sethos’s gaze.

No.

His heart dropped.

No, no, no—what the hell is she doing here?!

His breath hitched behind the mask as panic surged like a current through his veins. He tried to speak, to shout her name, to tell her to run, but his voice failed him.

Yet…

Sethos blinked.

There was no flicker of recognition.

No indication of fondness beneath the glowing, fractured surface of his eyes.

No hesitation.

Just hunger. Instinct. Violence.

He snarled, and with a screech of metal claws against stone, he lunged.

Straight for her.

The sheer force of his movement cracked the rooftop even further. Debris exploded upward behind him in a cloud of pulverized concrete. His limbs moved like a beast let off its leash—no technique, no precision. Just raw, terrifying power aimed directly at her.

[Y/N]’s pupils contracted as instinct overtook reason. Her legs were already moving before she realized it. She dove sideways, her shoulder crashing hard against the gravel-slick rooftop. Time warped. Everything slowed into agonizing clarity.

The whiplash of heat as Sethos passed inches from her—

The sharp, metallic screech of his claws raking across stone—

The thunderous boom as his strike landed behind her, carving a trench so deep the rooftop bled debris like open flesh. Chunks of concrete and sparking wires flew in all directions, a hurricane of destruction exploding behind her heels. Her ears rang from the concussive force. She hit the ground in a roll, pain jolting up her spine as her ribs met stone.

She tried to lift herself to the ground—anything to keep her standing on her feet before she was one second late, and she would've been gutted by her own best friend. Her palms scraped raw against the rooftop as she scrambled upright, staggering as loose stone crunched beneath her feet. Her lungs sucked in fire and dust as she turned, chest heaving, and her eyes were wide with shock, heart hammering in her throat.

Sethos skidded to a stop a few feet from where she had stood. His back was hunched, one clawed hand buried in the rooftop floor like an anchor, the other flexing slowly as it lifted.

He turned his head toward her—slowly, unnaturally—like a predator adjusting its gaze to track wounded prey. His movement didn’t carry the sharp, twitching alertness of a human anymore. It was fluid… animalistic. A primal instinct puppeteering a fractured form.

The gold light in his cracked iris pulsed brighter with every second, like a heartbeat outside of his chest. Abyssal veins webbed from that eye, glowing like molten rivers beneath his darkened skin, curling across his cheekbone, vanishing under the jagged edge of twisted flesh.

His lips curled.

Not into a grin.

Not even a snarl.

But something worse.

A slack, unreadable hunger—cold and dead-eyed.

Then he moved.

Slowly at first, but with growing confidence, like a creature that had cornered its prey and now relished dragging out the final moment.

[Y/N] backed away in blind instinct, shoes scraping across broken rooftop gravel. Her breath caught, hands trembling at her sides, fingers twitching for something to hold, something to defend herself with. Anything! There was nothing.

Just steel. Concrete. Fire.

And him.

He took another step.

And another.

Her spine met a collapsed beam jutting diagonally across the rooftop, halting her retreat. Her shoulders tensed. Fuck, she felt so trapped…

Sethos reached her.

The moment his massive clawed hand closed around her torso, it was like being caught by a vise.

His fingers wrapped around her waist, his palm spanning from the base of her back to the top of her chest. Not just one hand—her entire body was engulfed in his monstrous grasp.

Her legs kicked in panic, her fingers beat against his arm, but his hold only tightened.

Tighter.

And tighter.

"—A-ah—!" Her cry broke from her throat, strangled and hoarse.

Her ribs compressed under the crushing force. Air was yanked from her lungs. Her spine arched instinctively, back curling under pressure as the pain bloomed—white-hot and unbearable.

Her hands clawed at his wrist, nails scratching uselessly against the armored plating that encased him like obsidian. Her vision pulsed black at the edges. Every breath came harder than the last; her chest couldn’t expand, her lungs begging for air.

"S-Sethos—!" she gasped out, her voice high and trembling.

But the name didn’t register.

No flicker in his eyes. No hitch in his breath. No tremor in his monstrous grip. Her voice, once able to make him laugh through tears and silence his storms with nothing but a look, now rang hollow in the roar of the crumbling world around them. It fell on deaf ears… or perhaps ears that no longer remembered her.

[Y/N] choked on a sob, her ribs crushed beneath his unrelenting grasp. Her hands beat desperately against his wrist, but it was like striking stone. Cold. Unyielding.

She was suffocating—not just from the force constricting her lungs, but from the sheer terror bleeding through her thoughts.

Where was he?

Where was the boy who used to shove her behind him when things got rough, who stood taller and prouder when she was in danger, even if he had to lie about not being afraid?

Where was the boy who always noticed when her hands trembled… and held them anyway?

Where was the boy who promised her—

"If anything tries to hurt you, they'll have to go through me first."

Her heart splintered under the weight of memory.

Because he was here.

Sethos was the one hurting her now.

His hand, once calloused and warm, now gleamed with abyssal corruption and twisted into something alien. His face, once lit with crooked smiles and midnight thoughts, was now half-buried under blackened bone and gold-glowing scars that moved like cracks in a mask.

His single golden eye focused down on her—utterly blank.

And then…

His grip never loosened.

The tips of his fingers curved around her spine. The base of his thumb pressed against the side of her breastbone. Each digit flexed slightly with his breathing, as though testing just how much pressure her bones could withstand before they snapped.

And then…

He began to lean in.

His mouth opened slowly.

But it wasn’t the soft, sheepish grin she knew—the one that tugged at the corner of his lips whenever he got flustered or tried to pretend he wasn’t enjoying himself. It wasn’t even the wicked, playful smirk he used to wear when teasing her during long walks home.

No, this… this was something else.

His jaw cracked unnaturally as it lowered, muscles twitching beneath thick, corrupted skin. It stretched wider than any human mouth should, hinged like that of a serpent or some deep-sea creature dredged up from a nightmare. Blackened fangs, long and needle-thin, unfolded from his gums in a slow, deliberate pattern. They glistened with venom and spit, catching the firelight in an eerie shimmer like obsidian blades ready to pierce through bone.

A low, gurgling rasp vibrated from deep within his throat; not a growl, but a hollow exhale, void of anything remotely human. His breath came hot and sour, reeking of scorched metal, blood, and something ancient and wrong. It fanned across her face in sickening waves, burning her lungs with each shuddered inhale.

[Y/N] stared upward, paralyzed, her back pressed flat against his tightening grip. Her legs refused to move. Her arms trembled too violently to lift. Her head lolled just slightly to the side, her gaze locked with the abyss just inches from her.

She saw the inside of his mouth in awful detail: how the gums pulsed faintly with every breath and how tendrils of black smoke hissed from his throat as though something inside him was perpetually burning.

And at the very back, where no light dared to reach, was a void that felt like falling.

Like if he bit down, she wouldn’t just die—she’d be erased.

This was it.

There would be no last-minute plea. No miracle of recognition. No voice cutting through the madness to bring him back.

There was no more strength to fight. No more words to scream. No miracles to beg for.

Just the inevitable.

She stared up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, and in that moment—just before everything turned black—she accepted it.

Not because she wanted to die.

But because this wasn’t him.

… He would never let this happen.

And she had been so stupid to believe that feelings alone could anchor someone drowning in that much pain. She had been foolish to follow him into the storm, thinking her presence might calm it.

Now she was about to be devoured by the very abyss she thought she could save him from.

I'm sorry, she thought. I wasn't enough.

His mouth opened wider. And her eyes closed as her body relaxed.

Then he lowered his head—

And the sky cracked open.

A green streak of pixelated light screamed across the rooftop like divine vengeance.

And then—impact.

The Green Ghost slammed into Sethos’s side with such velocity the air around them combusted in a shockwave of emerald energy. The rooftop tilted with the force, groaning beneath the impact. Sparks and shattered tiles exploded outward, casting the scene in fire and fragments.

Sethos was torn away from her in a blur of motion, his grip finally breaking as he was hurled across the rooftop into a ruined ventilation stack. Metal twisted and collapsed around him as he struck it, vanishing into a cloud of dust and debris.

[Y/N] collapsed to her knees, clutching her ribs with both arms as her lungs fought to reclaim air. She coughed violently, every breath rasping like sandpaper down her throat.

Through blurred, tear-filled eyes, she looked up.

The rooftop around her groaned beneath the weight of devastation. Smoke coiled from broken beams and shattered vents, carrying with it the acrid scent of burning wires, blood, and ash. Sirens howled somewhere far below, their pitch swallowed by the ruin above.

He stood between her and the wreckage, emerald light flickering wildly from his torn suit. His breath came in shallow heaves, fogging the inside of his mask. Scorch marks burned through the fibers of his suit. A deep gash ran across his left shoulder, blackened and oozing beneath the frayed fabric. His gauntlet sparked—badly damaged—green pixels glitching and reforming erratically along his arm.

His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, breath scraping through the voice filter beneath his mask. His right hand flexed slowly at his side, claws curled into a fist, and his whole frame tilted slightly—off-balance, wounded. But still standing.

He didn’t look back at her. Not once.

His attention was locked forward, burning with intent.

No questions. No hesitation. No moment to ask if she was okay.

To him, she was alive. That was enough.

What mattered now was him. And whatever was left of him was buried inside that monster’s skin.

He'll make sure he kills him.

For everyone's sake.

Sethos rose from the collapsed ventilation stack with a low snarl rattling in his chest, glowing eyes flickering like a dying star. His body moved like something pulled by strings, limbs twitching with erratic, primal surges. Dust and fragments of metal slid from his shoulders as he stood to full height, those abyssal claws twitching in anticipation.

Then Kinich charged.

His boots tore across the ruined rooftop, gauntlet shimmering as he pulled power from the pixel-core on his wrist. Green light flickered along his knuckles, his punch lined with the volatile weight of his fury.

He struck first.

His fist collided with Sethos’s jaw with a bone-jarring crack, hard enough to snap the monster’s head to the side. Sparks and gold-black blood sprayed into the air. But Sethos didn’t fall. He merely growled, recoiled, and then lunged.

The counterstrike came fast.

Sethos’s claws carved through the space between them, missing Kinich’s head by inches. Kinich ducked, rolled low beneath the second swing, and drove his knee up into Sethos’s ribs, where once there had been flesh, but now something tougher—denser. His leg vibrated with the impact, jarring him.

But still, he pressed forward.

He tried to hurt her.

Kinich’s heart thundered.

Even knowing Sethos wasn’t himself—knowing this was the corrupted, feral shell of a friend once dear to him—that image wouldn’t leave his mind: [Y/N], limp in that monstrous hand, suffocating. The bruises. The fear in her eyes.

It hit something buried in him.

Something cold. And dangerous.

He let out a sharp breath and swung again, this time combining his grappling hook into a spinning strike midair. The line curved in a sweeping arc, cracking across Sethos’s shoulder and forcing him to stumble sideways. Debris kicked up around their feet as they moved—blow for blow, step for step.

Sethos roared and retaliated.

He came at Kinich in a blur, his movements faster than before, fueled by pure rage and instinct. One claw slashed across Kinich’s chest, the impact sending a ripple of sparks and tearing into the reinforced mesh of his suit. Alarms blared in his system.

Kinich winced but spun back, using the momentum to drive his elbow into the side of Sethos’s head again. The monster growled louder and slammed his foot into Kinich’s gut, sending the Green Ghost skidding back across the gravel.

Kinich barely caught himself, boots grinding against loose concrete.

Get up, his mind barked. Move.

He pushed back into motion, flaring his palm and releasing a burst of green energy that shot like shrapnel into Sethos’s chest, forcing him to stagger. The light seared against the golden veins, causing the monster to shriek in fury.

But it didn’t stop him.

Sethos lunged again, this time tackling Kinich full-body.

They crashed into a ventilation unit, crushing it flat. Metal shrieked. Kinich rolled with the blow, took a claw to the shoulder, then retaliated with a grappling hook strike that coiled around Sethos’s arm. He yanked it hard, pulling the beast’s limb down, then slammed his gauntlet into the exposed neck, pixel energy crackling.

Sethos screamed.

Not human. Not a monster. Something in between.

Yet Kinich didn’t care.

You nearly killed her.

He struck again.

And again.

His fists blurred, not with recklessness, but purpose. Each blow calculated, lined with fury, he couldn’t speak out loud. He wasn’t fighting to subdue anymore. He was fighting to protect what remained. To keep her safe.

Even if that meant breaking the last thing he had left of Sethos.

Even if it meant destroying his best friend. And destroying his promise to the girl he loved to bring him back.

Just because he almost lost her…

Their bodies slammed across the rooftop—into walls, through old machinery, and over broken stone. The sky above rumbled with distant thunder, smoke rising in thick plumes. The wind carried the scent of ash, metal, and blood.

And below, the city trembled. Once more.

Kinich gritted his teeth behind the mask, where the sound of his own breath rasping loud in his ears. The rooftop shook beneath them, with bits of concrete and broken steel falling away into the smoking city below. Wind lashed against his torn cloak as green pixels gathered once more in the mouth of his cannon, the emerald glow pulsating like a heart about to burst.

Sethos was barely upright now.

The blast from earlier had knocked him back toward a wall of exposed support beams, his hulking form half-slumped, gold-lit cracks webbing across his chest like fault lines beneath glass. His body twitched, jerking unnaturally but still dangerously. So, there is a chance that bastard is still alive.

Kinich’s gauntlet thrummed as he raised it higher, powering up. The glow intensified, charging, whirring, pixels building in layers until the very edges of his cannon sang with pressure.

Kinich took aim.

There was no hesitation in his hands.

He deserved it.

After everything he’d done—after what he almost did to her—how could he not?

Kinich's finger hovered over the trigger. Just a fraction more pressure…

"Green Ghost!"

The shout rang out from behind him; it was sharp and desperate.

His heart stalled.

"Please don’t—don’t kill my best friend! Please!"

[Y/N]’s voice cracked mid-sentence. He didn’t even need to turn to know her eyes were probably glassy with tears, bruised from the earlier impact. Her breath likely hitched with every word, her chest still sore from nearly being crushed. And yet… she was pleading.

Begging.

For him.

The barrel of the cannon trembled slightly.

Kinich’s eyes didn’t leave Sethos.

But something in his jaw clenched. Hard.

The anger inside him, red-hot and rising, didn’t vanish. No—it burned deeper. He had been holding it back with gritted teeth and clenched fists since the moment he saw her in that monster’s grip, choking, helpless, breaking.

And now, here she was… begging him not to stop the thing that nearly took her away.

He nearly scoffed.

Of course she would say that.

But Kinich?

He saw the trail of ruined buildings behind Sethos. The police officers who were slaughtered before backup could arrive. The citizens who didn’t get to run fast enough. The blood in the alleys. The bodies in the wreckage.

He saw the jagged lines Sethos had crossed. Again. And again.

And Kinich was tired of pretending the past excused the present.

What was there not to kill?

He’s not himself anymore.

He’s dangerous.

He’s out of control.

He was going to kill her.

His gauntlet pulsed, pixel glow intensifying as the cannon synced to full charge.

Green circuitry hummed up his forearm like lightning veins. The cannon’s barrel expanded outward with a mechanical twist, forming jagged geometric shapes shaped like a dragon’s mouth as if ready to unleash hell. Static arced across the metal as the rooftop around them flickered with energy, debris floating slightly under the growing charge.

He braced himself, feet firm, arm locked in position. He cleaned out the echoes of cries of his best friend from the distance.

Just one shot.

One clean shot.

And it would end.

The monster lying half-buried in debris lifted his head.

Kinich’s eyes narrowed behind his mask.

Sethos’s claws curled against the ground as if preparing for another lunge. His body twitched, the glow in his golden veins surging—and for one suspended second, Kinich believed this would end in another brutal round.

But then—

The motion halted.

Suddenly.

Sethos slumped forward slightly. Not like a predator coiling to strike—but like something… tired.

His shoulders rose in a heavy, uneven breath. The abyssal corruption across his face flickered, dimmed—like the shadows retreating for a single heartbeat.

And then he did something Kinich wasn’t ready for.

He trembled.

The gold light in his one unbroken eye shimmered, not with rage or mindless fury, but with moisture.

No.

Not moisture.

Tears.

And then another.

And another.

Sethos was crying.

They welled in the corner of his eye, streaming crookedly down the half of his face that remained human.

Kinich’s breath hitched, just barely. His cannon wavered by a few degrees.

He was… shaking.

Trembling, as if his body—so warped and armored and impossible—could barely hold itself together anymore. The claws that had just moments ago carved through concrete now hung limply at his sides. His chest rose and fell in uneven heaves, ragged and hollow. Smoke rose from his shoulders, the glow along his veins fading in and out like a dying lightbulb.

Then—

Sethos opened his mouth.

And for the first time…

He spoke.

"…I—I…" The voice was fragmented. Dissonant. Like metal grinding over broken glass. It came from a throat not meant for human words anymore, filtered through vocal cords strained and cracking. "I… didn’t wanna…"

His jaw twitched, like it physically pained him to speak.

"…hurt anyone…"

Kinich didn’t move.

He stood there frozen, cannon still charged, watching in disbelief as the monster before him—his best friend turned living catastrophe—stood weeping beneath the glow of a burning sky.

"I didn’t mean to…” Sethos’ claws curled inward as if recoiling from his own hands. "I… I tried… I tried to stay me…"

His whole body seemed to wilt beneath invisible weight. His spine hunched. His knees buckled slightly.

"’M tired…" he murmured next.

His claws shook as he raised them slightly—not in a threat, but in a gesture of confusion, maybe surrender, maybe helplessness.

"...I c-came back… b-but it’s loud in my head… it’s… it’s loud all the time…"

The golden light in his eye dimmed further. His monstrous limbs twitched involuntarily, like a puppet fighting its own strings.

Kinich stared, bewildered.

Behind him, [Y/N] barely breathed. She had her hand over her mouth, a gasp caught between shock and guilt as she watched her best friend shake like a leaf beneath the weight of his own voice.

There was no growling.

No snarling.

No violence.

Only a boy caught mid-collapse, staring through both of them—not as a monster—but as someone who had wandered too far from the shore, only to return when the tide was at its cruelest.

He wasn’t attacking.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Kinich didn’t know what to do.

Just as everything was about to reach its end, his best friend had to return back in the worst timing possible.

Just… too late.

The pain barely registered anymore.

It wasn’t like before—those sharp stabs of claws ripping through flesh, the burn of pixel blasts slamming into his chest. This was different. Deeper. Numb.

Sethos slumped where he knelt, his monstrous body hunched under its own weight, his chest heaving raggedly with every breath. Each rise and fall was a struggle, scraping against shattered ribs and seared muscle. The cracks lacing his body pulsed with faint golden light—weak, barely flickering.

His claws twitched uselessly at his sides, scraped and trembling, soaked in a mix of ichor and human blood.

He couldn’t even tell which was his anymore.

He stared down at them, panting, watching the liquid drip onto the rooftop floor below—dark, thick, pooling with every heartbeat that grew slower. His vision blurred around the edges, distorting the world in a haze of ash and smoke.

Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, he could still hear them.

The Green Ghost.

[Y/N].

Voices. Faint. Distant.

But he didn’t raise his head.

He couldn’t.

Because it was hitting him now—slowly, like a knife pressed deep, not slicing, just sinking.

This was it.

There was no going back.

No second chance.

No forgiveness is waiting at the end of this road.

The boy he once was—Sethos, the idiot with the crooked grin who always had a sarcastic quip ready, the one who would shoot hoops until sunset, the one who laughed too loudly at his friends’ dumb jokes—was gone.

Dead, really.

Buried beneath claws, scales, and the stench of ruined streets.

And even if by some miracle the corruption faded, if by some divine cruelty the abyss loosened its grip on his mind… what would it change?

The bodies still littered the streets below.

The city still burned in his wake.

The families still grieved for lives he’d taken with his own hands—whether he meant to or not didn’t matter anymore.

He had killed.

Slaughtered.

Destroyed.

Even when his mind was swallowed by the abyss, even when he couldn’t recognize himself, it had still been him under it all.

His body.

His power.

His failure.

There wasn’t enough redemption in the world to wash that away.

The ache inside his chest grew heavier.

Because even now, as everything fell apart—when he could barely keep his head up—he still thought of her.

[Y/N].

Her voice was still fresh in his mind, the way it had trembled when she called out to the Green Ghost—begging for mercy on behalf of the monster who almost crushed her.

Begging for him.

It was just like her—too damn kind for her own good.

Too soft. Too forgiving. Too… hopeful.

She didn’t understand.

She didn’t see it yet.

Or maybe she refused to acknowledge the painful truth…

There was nothing left of the boy she loved.

Nothing left of the friend she wanted to save.

He hadn’t said it out loud.

He never would.

But he’d loved her.

For as long as he could remember, in every way a boy like him knew how—awkward, reckless, painfully obvious.

He loved her through their laughter, through every shared secret, every sidelong glance. Even when she was the root cause of why he had turned into madness, he couldn't bear to pass the blame to her because he knew deep down that she was not responsible for his own actions.

And tonight… he almost killed her.

With his hands.

There was no coming back from that.

None.

His breaths grew slower now, shallower. His limbs wouldn’t move anymore.

Good.

Maybe this was how it was meant to end.

Maybe this was the only mercy left to give.

I deserved it.

More than anyone else ever would.

After all, he's always been the unluckiest out of the trio.

Having to deal with an unrequited love for so long, watching her fall for his best friend instead with a heavy heart and playful smiles. Having to save the girl he loved from the abyss, only to be a pawn in their twisted game. Having to go through numerous experiments and medications just to keep him sane. And of course, having to force submission to the call of the abyss and feed them with satisfaction by bringing destruction to the city he grew up in and loved

Maybe this is what fate had in store for him all along—he must've been greedy to ask for a simple life with his friends just to have it all taken away in the end.

Either way, he'll accept it.

And then… it began.

Slowly at first—so subtly that neither of them noticed right away.

Sethos’s body, hunched and broken on the rooftop, started to dissolve.

It wasn’t dramatic. No flash of light. No sudden rupture.

It was quiet.

Silent.

Like dust caught in moonlight, his monstrous form began to break apart at the edges—thin trails of shimmering black mist rising from his skin, peeling away in soft, weightless wisps. His claws crumbled into fine ash, caught by the wind and drifting off into the smoky night.

And then his arm—gone at the fingertips, the abyssal corruption disintegrating piece by piece, unraveling like threads pulled from an old tapestry.

[Y/N] saw it.

Her breath hitched.

Her limbs felt weak, every nerve screaming after the trauma she'd endured—but it didn’t matter. Not now. Please, not now!

Her eyes widened in horror, and her trembling fingers clutched the broken ground beneath her as she tried—desperately—to move. She ignored the Green Ghost's quick actions of trying to stabilize her, her focus solely on the fading figure in front of her.

"...N-No… no, no—"

Her voice cracked through the rooftop winds, sharp and raw. Then her knees buckled beneath her when she tried to stand. She collapsed hard onto the gravel, a cry escaping as pain shot up her bruised leg, but she didn’t stop.

She dragged herself forward, dragging her battered body across the crumbling rooftop. Her palm smeared through dust and dried blood as she pulled herself closer to him—closer to the friend who was vanishing right in front of her.

"Sethos—Sethos, please—" she sobbed, her words slipping between gasps, between pleading breaths that tasted of ash. "Don't—don't go—please—"

But he was slipping faster now.

His chest, once rising in ragged, weak breaths, had grown still—but not in peace. The glow in his eye flickered softly, dimming more with every second, while the cracked veins along his skin faded away into the wind.

"Stay—" she begged again, her voice breaking apart. "You can't—don't you dare—don't you dare leave me like this—!"

She reached for him—her shaking hand stretching out, desperate to grab hold of something, anything—but when her fingertips brushed his dissolving chest, they passed right through.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes went wide in disbelief as her hand slid through him like smoke, meeting nothing but cold air.

"No," she whimpered, her face crumpling.

Still, she tried again. And again. Reaching. Grasping. Clawing at him as if she could somehow piece him back together with sheer will alone.

"Come back," she whispered, tears running freely down her bruised cheeks, dripping onto the dissolving fragments of what was once her best friend.

Tears streamed freely down her bruised cheeks, spilling from wide, horrified eyes and dripping onto the rooftop beneath her—onto the soft, fading fragments of what was once her best friend.

Her hand trembled above what little was left of him, fingers curling helplessly as if she could gather the crumbling remnants into her palms and hold him there.

But he was vanishing faster now.

His legs had already dissolved into drifting particles, the monstrous edges of his body swept away like embers caught in a dying breeze. His chest was next, fading from solid to nothing with each shallow, rattling breath.

And just as the last of his form began to slip away—

He spoke.

Barely.

A soft, hoarse breath—strained and weak—rose from what little remained of his throat.

"...I…"

She froze, breath caught in her chest, unable to look away from the dim flicker of his eye—faint, but locked onto her through the veil of smoke.

His cracked lips barely moved, but the words pushed through anyway, each syllable trembling under its own weight.

"...I l-love… y-you…"

Her breath shattered in her lungs.

Her hands shook violently as his words settled over her—quiet, soft, yet louder than any explosion, louder than any of the chaos still echoing across the city below.

His eye closed.

And then—

He was gone.

The last of him—those glowing scars, that broken face, those trembling claws—scattered in the wind.

All that remained was empty space.

And her.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Her body folded in on itself, her knees giving out fully beneath her as she collapsed, curling forward and burying her face against them. Her shoulders shook with ragged sobs—loud, helpless, breaking through every wall she'd tried to hold up.

"Why? Why? WHYYYYY?!" she cried out, the words torn from her throat in a raw, gut-wrenching wail. "Please—bring him back, please—I'm begging you!" Then she pressed her hands to her ears, shaking her head as if trying to block out what she'd heard or to ground herself that none of it was real—but it was too late.

The words were already carved into her.

Her sobs echoed across the rooftop, sharp and strangled, as the night swallowed them whole.

Somewhere behind her, Kinich remained still, watching.

But even he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Behind his mask, his face was pale. Stunned.

Neither of them said a word.

The rooftop was quiet again.

Utterly empty.

He took a breath.

It didn’t help.

The smoke coiled in thick tendrils ahead of him, concealing what lay beyond.

The aftermath.

The body.

His best friend.

His boots scraped through dust and ash as he moved slowly, step by heavy step, the wind stirring torn paper and ash past his ankles. His legs felt like cinder blocks. His chest was tight. He couldn’t unclench his jaw, not even to breathe right.

He had said he'd bring him back.

He could hear [Y/N]'s voice echo in his head. With that desperation and hopeful promise ringing in his ears, it flatlined in the eerie silence of the aftermath.

"You’ll find him, right?"

"You’ll bring him home?"

He swallowed hard, blinking the sting from his eyes beneath the mask.

His hands trembled at his sides.

You didn’t bring him back… you destroyed him.

The guilt was a stone, sinking deeper into his ribs with every step.

The smoke curled like ghostly fingers, thick and choking, swallowing the crater whole. Kinich stepped through it with quiet breaths, the weight of the cannon dragging at his shoulder like guilt made tangible.

His boots crunched over scorched gravel. Debris shifted beneath his feet, glowing faintly with residual energy. The air was humid with heat and the metallic tang of blood and scorched steel.

And there he was.

Slumped in the crater’s center like a fallen beast, one claw twitching feebly, half of his body riddled with burns and raw muscle exposed. His monstrous form had partially deteriorated—the rifthound plating along his shoulders now cracked and blistering. One of his horns had been blasted clean off. Glowing veins spiderwebbed through the remaining patches of mutated skin like molten rivers.

Kinich felt his throat seize.

"…Sethos?"

No response.

He dared to step closer.

A heartbeat passed.

Two.

And then—

Something moved.

A sudden snap of air displacement—

He lunged.

From stillness to violent motion, he exploded forward like a detonated spring. No roar. No warning. Just a blur of black and red and hunger. His eyes ignited once more—burning gold, slit, and furious—and his claws slammed into Kinich’s chestplate like a freight train.

CRASH!

Kinich didn’t even have time to scream. The force hurled him through the air, his suit scraping and twisting with the wind pressure as he slammed into the side of a wrecked police cruiser. The door buckled in on impact, the window burst into fragments, and the roof dented with a brutal crunch.

Kinich hit the ground hard.

His vision blurred. Alarms rang in his ears. The tracker on his wrist flickered, displaying ERROR warnings and red vitals in frantic flashes.

The wind had been knocked clean out of him.

Then—

Another sound.

A low, gurgling growl.

He looked up.

And saw his best friend again.

No longer slumped. No longer defeated.

He was moving—fast.

Sethos stomped forward, dragging one misshapen leg, jaw half-hanging open, revealing rows of disjointed, jagged teeth. A flickering black mist leaked from the corners of his mouth. His spine twisted with every step. Muscles spasmed under scaled skin. His eyes were wild—mad, locked on Kinich like prey.

And then—he swung.

His claws slashed toward the wreckage where Kinich lay. The metal of the cruiser shrieked as it tore apart like wet cloth under his strength. Sparks and shards of torn hood panels flew like shrapnel.

But Kinich wasn’t there.

Whip—!

The snap of neon green light lanced into the sky as Kinich fired his grappling hook, launching himself into the air in a burst of kinetic speed.

He twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding the claw swipe as it gouged a trench into the concrete where he’d just been. Bits of debris erupted upward from the impact. Glass rained down like deadly glitter. A lamppost nearby was clipped clean in half by Sethos’s blind swipe and crashed to the ground with a metallic screech.

Kinich spun once in midair, swinging low, boots nearly skimming the cracked sidewalk before he hooked upward again, landing hard on a nearby rooftop.

He turned just in time to see Sethos pause.

Chest heaving. Back arched. One foot half-dragging. Smoke coiling around his form like a second skin.

And then—

He ran.

Not in retreat.

On a rampage.

His claws dug into the asphalt, launching himself forward with frightening speed. He leapt over wrecked cars and bounded off shattered walls, every step shattering pavement beneath his feet.

He disappeared into the burning remains of the city, leaving a trail of crumbling rooftops and ruptured street corners in his wake.

Kinich stood there, breath shallow.

The whole block shook from the wake of Sethos’s escape. Sirens echoed faintly in the distance—no one daring to come closer.

He didn’t have time to process.

Didn’t have time to recover.

Because if he kept running—

More people would die.

Kinich fired the grappling hook again.

The tether shot upward with a high-pitched whir, pixelated strands of green light spiraling like a neon serpent into the smoke-wrapped skyline. It latched to a rusted antenna perched crookedly atop a half-collapsed high-rise.

In a split second, Kinich launched forward.

Wind blasted against his mask, his tattered suit tearing behind him like shredded paper caught in a storm. The city blurred beneath him—flashes of burning rooftops, sparks bleeding from downed power lines, and blackened streets carved apart by claw marks that cleaved deep into the asphalt.

He swung through it all like a thread of light pulled tight through darkness, navigating the debris with practiced grace—every motion a sharpened instinct, every pivot driven by desperation.

Smoke and ash curled past him in sweeping spirals. From up here, the city looked like a corpse still twitching with the last shudders of breath. Sirens crackled in the distance, helicopters blinked red and white as they circled like confused vultures, and flames licked out of shattered windows with the hungry moan of something feral.

But Kinich didn’t look away. His eyes were fixed forward.

On the trail.

On him.

Each rooftop he crossed bore the evidence: fractured tiles, shattered air vents, and splashes of blood that glowed faintly under his mask's enhanced vision. Sethos’s monstrous gait had carved a jagged path across the skyline like a storm on legs.

And he was fast.

Too fast for someone wounded.

Too furious to think clearly.

Where the hell was he going?

He had him. Had him pinned. The cannon should’ve knocked him down long enough for Kinich to get through, to reach out, to remind him—that he promised [Y/N] he'll bring him back.

But instead… he lashed out. Violently. Desperately.

And then ran.

It didn’t make sense.

He landed on the edge of a crumbling balcony, the railing snapping as he dropped into a crouch. Dust puffed around his boots as the building groaned beneath him. He fired the hook again before the floor could give way, launching himself into the air with another burst of pixelated velocity.

The night air burned in his lungs.

His ribs throbbed beneath the suit—every breath a shallow cut—but he didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

Kinich soared above a flaming overpass, where twisted highway railings sparked beneath the broken tires of overturned cars. Shadows moved below—citizens screaming, trying to escape—but their cries were fading now, buried beneath the groaning hush of a city under siege.

He swung low, barely missing the crumbling edge of a news tower. A television screen on its side wall flickered with static, half-melted—still showing footage from earlier tonight. Blurry aerial shots of the monster.

Kinich gritted his teeth and pulled himself higher.

Another rooftop. Another jump.

He hit the landing hard, skidding in a low crouch, shoulder dragging against loose gravel and glass. His momentum carried him to the edge before he leapt again, grappling onto a water tower scaffold.

The scaffold rattled under his weight, the rusted bolts groaning in protest as Kinich landed with a metallic thud. His fingers barely held as he clung to the cold steel beams, breathing sharply and rapidly inside the confines of his helmet. Sparks danced in the air below him, remnants of downed power lines licking the sides of nearby buildings like tongues of lightning.

Kinich hoisted himself up, planting one boot on the narrow ledge and launching into another swing—this time soaring between two crooked towers leaning into each other like wounded giants. The wind whipped against him, tugging at the shredded remnants of his cloak. His eyes narrowed behind the almost-cracked tracker, flaring with directional tracking, trying to recalculate Sethos’s path. But the signal—what little his tracker had picked up from Sethos’s biometrics—was erratic. Glitching. Wild.

Target lines twisted and spiraled in erratic loops, red markers blinking in and out of existence like dying stars. The biometric readings pulsed along the screen—one moment spiking into dangerous levels of aggression, the next flatlining into silence.

A warning alert chimed once.

Then again.

[RECALIBRATING TARGET…] [SIGNAL LOST…] [RECONNECTING… ERR: NEURAL FEEDBACK INTERFERENCE]

The map flashed a blur of static across the east quadrant before abruptly shifting the coordinates ten blocks south, then jittering back up toward a zone already marked "UNSTABLE STRUCTURE."

Kinich gritted his teeth, slamming a palm against the side of his tracker.

"Dammit—stay still," he muttered through clenched teeth.

The tracker blinked again, desperately trying to follow Sethos’s movement—but the signal was like chasing a ghost in a sandstorm. A dotted red silhouette briefly appeared in the fog of war, contorted and malformed, before glitching into nothing again.

"Make up your mind already…" he hissed, breath fogging against his mask.

His hand gripped the grappling hook’s trigger as he scanned the skyline ahead, half-expecting another glitch—another ghostly ping of Sethos flickering and disappearing into static.

Instead, the rooftop in front of him stayed still.

Too still.

No more flickers. No shifting signal.

Just silence.

He narrowed his eyes. That silence was a trap—he felt it in his spine.

Still, he launched forward.

The line zipped taut, hurling him through the air in a high arc above the broken buildings. Sparks trailed behind his boots as his momentum brought him down toward the next roof. A half-damaged ten-story apartment complex loomed beneath him, windows shattered, the top floor half-collapsed from earlier damage. Kinich braced for the landing, knees bent, cloak fluttering behind him like a torn shadow.

He landed hard, rolling forward with a crunch of gravel beneath his armor.

And then—

It hit.

A blur of purple and black slammed into him from the side like a runaway train.

"Ghk—!"

He didn’t even see it coming.

Claws raked across his shoulder, sparks flying as his suit gave way to raw force. Kinich was flung off his feet, skidding across the rooftop until his back crashed into an old AC unit with a gut-wrenching metallic crunch. The wind blasted from his lungs.

He tried to stand.

But then he heard it—the growl.

Low. Bestial. Familiar in the most devastating way.

Kinich’s head snapped up.

Sethos stood a few meters away in the shadows, hunched, panting hard, his chest rising and falling with ragged intensity. His body was caught mid-transformation—too human to be beast, too monstrous to be man. Thick muscle flexed beneath skin that pulsed with glowing cracks. His claws twitched at his sides. His eyes…

Those damn golden eyes burned into Kinich like twin brands.

"You…!" Kinich gasped, pushing himself up, still stunned. "You ran! Why—why attack now?!"

Sethos didn’t answer.

With a snarl, he charged again.

Kinich barely activated his gauntlet in time. A green energy shield pixelated into existence a split second before claws met his chest. The impact knocked him backward again, boots scraping across tar and gravel. Sparks flew. The shield sizzled, flickering under the pressure.

"Snap out of it!" Kinich barked, his voice echoing behind his mask. But Sethos didn’t stop.

He was too lost…

He spun—his tail whipping outward, catching Kinich across the ribs and hurling him sideways. Kinich hit the ledge of the rooftop with a sharp grunt, the stone cracking beneath his weight. He groaned, muscles screaming, and threw himself backward just as Sethos’s claws sank into the spot he’d just been. The ledge shattered into chunks of debris, plummeting into the alley far below.

Kinich flipped midair, firing his grappling hook into the rusted frame of a broken billboard overhead. It caught. He zipped upward, launched himself over Sethos’s head, and landed behind him in a skid.

Sethos spun, eyes blazing, saliva dripping from his half-snapped jaw. His fingers curled like talons. He lunged with a roar that cracked through the city air.

Kinich ducked low, slid beneath his friend’s wild swing, then brought his elbow up into Sethos’s side. It was like hitting stone. Sethos barely flinched.

Kinich drew his second weapon—the compact blade charged with pixel energy—and slashed at Sethos’s shoulder, leaving a glowing green burn across the plated skin. Sethos hissed but retaliated instantly, backhanding Kinich across the face. It tore a small piece of fabric on his mask, specifically on his cheek, causing him to choke a gasp.

The fight was spiraling.

Not calculated.

Not precise.

Just chaos.

Sethos attacked like something cornered—like an animal torn between flight and fury. Every blow was raw, heavy, and too fast to be planned. His claws gouged trenches into the rooftop. His movements were violent, but there was something beneath them—something conflicted.

Kinich dodged again, panting hard.

Fuck, this is getting me nowhere.

—

The city burned.

Ash drifted like snowflakes in a dying winter, the air thick with smoke and the distant wail of sirens too far away to matter. The streets were unrecognizable—warped by flame, littered with shattered glass, overturned cars, and twisted metal. Storefronts were torn apart. Streetlights sparked and died. People had either fled… or fallen.

And in the middle of it all, [Y/N] wandered.

Her steps were uneven, shoes coated in soot, one hand braced against her chest like it could keep her heart from falling apart. Her legs ached; many times she had almost lost her footing. Her throat was raw. But she didn’t stop.

She didn’t know where she was going.

There was no plan. No destination. No trail marked with clarity.

Only chaos.

And she followed it.

Because that was all he left behind.

Every shattered street corner, every split in the pavement, every scorched wall or claw-marked vehicle—it all screamed his name. She could feel it, like a drumbeat in her bones. Like the city itself was echoing his pain. Her eyes scanned every rooftop, every alley, searching for a flicker of gold eyes or that familiar blur of motion.

Nothing.

But she still walked.

Because what else was she supposed to do?

Wait?

Hide?

Let Kinich deal with it? By Archons, know how will he be able to tame him?

Her jaw clenched at the thought. She’d already waited too long. Already ignored too many signs. She had done nothing when he was breaking long before he turned into a monster.

Now the world was shattering around him, and all she could do was follow his destruction like breadcrumbs.

The acrid scent of burning tires and concrete filled her lungs, but she pressed on. Past the broken barricades. Past the flashing red of distant emergency lights. Her boots splashed through puddles of water from a burst hydrant, the ripples dancing in the flickering orange of nearby fires.

[Y/N] wiped her sleeve across her cheek, smearing soot across skin she didn’t even feel anymore. Her thoughts were a whirlwind—she couldn't afford to be distracted by fleeting sentiments as she followed the faint booming echoes in the distance. Possibly where the real chaos was unfolding. She almost slipped over the remains of a splintered mailbox, the edge still glowing faintly with heat.

Then she cursed under her breath before regaining back her balance and was about to quicken her pace until she stopped in her tracks when she spotted a peculiar clue of his whereabouts.

There were claw marks on the concrete wall beside it—deep, jagged, freshly cut.

Her breath caught.

She wasn’t imagining it.

He’d passed through here.

"Please," she whispered—voice hoarse, almost inaudible even to herself. "Let me find you."

She didn’t know what she’d do if she did. She didn’t know if he’d even recognize her anymore. Maybe he’d lash out. Maybe he wouldn’t even see her—buried too deep beneath whatever the abyss had turned him into.

She bit her lip, adding pressure until she tasted blood, the metallic tang a sharp contrast to the acrid scent of burnt metal in the air.

Thus, the lead brought to her to the impending doom that awaits her.

The city was chaos incarnate.

Sirens wailed through smoke-choked streets, emergency floodlights spinning in frantic red and blue pulses as chaos reigned around the towering structure that had become ground zero. The apartment complex groaned under the weight of violence, its glass exterior shattered, steel beams bent and fractured, and upper floors crumbling one section at a time as the war above raged on.

From below, it looked like the construction itself was screaming.

She shoved through the crowd without grace—people yelling, shoulders slamming into her from every angle, medics shouting for space, officers barking orders—but she didn’t stop. Her vision tunneled past the triage tents, the overturned barriers, the cracked roads, and the collapsed signage. Her eyes locked upward, on the rooftop where the storm continued to rage.

Flashes of purple and green tore through the smoke far overhead, blurred streaks of motion colliding in violent rhythm. Each strike sent tremors down the building’s spine, cracking windows, dislodging concrete, and showering debris onto the pavement below like burning hail.

Above, high—too high—two figures blurred in and out of visibility between the smoke and the glow. Claw and pixel. Each clash sent tremors down the spine of the tower. With every impact, the structure groaned, crying out like it wanted to fall.

She can see him: hulking, fractured, and mutated, but his silhouette was unmistakable. His purple cracks, pulsing like open wounds. His claws raking against the rooftop. His face, distorted but still his.

Her breath hitched.

"Shit." she whispered.

Her hands fumbled, frantic, reaching for her phone in her jacket pocket as she ducked behind a fallen signpost. It trembled in her grip as she brought it to her ear, fingers nearly numb from the cold bite of panic.

She pressed Kinich’s contact, ignoring the multiple missed calls from her mother. It rang.

The screen was reflected in her wide eyes.

Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Her fingers trembled harder. She hit redial. Again. Again. Each unanswered tone stabbed deeper into her chest.

"Come on, Kinich," she whispered, her voice cracking, the noise of the city swallowing her words. "Pick up, please."

She looked up at the tower. Sethos was still fighting. Still resisting—or maybe just surviving.

She didn't know what he was doing.

All she knew was that she had the need to update Kinich—to let him know she had found him first.

The fourth ring ended. Straight to voicemail. The number you have dialed is currently unavailable—

Her heart sank. Her throat closed. How come he's not answering?

Her thumb hovered over the screen, frozen.

Behind her, someone bumped into her shoulder hard—an evacuee running toward the safety lines, eyes wide with panic. Another bumped her side. She nearly dropped her phone as a medic shouted to make way for a stretcher.

She stumbled, shielding her head as a nearby lamppost sparked and blew out overhead. Dust filled her lungs. Sirens wailed louder. The world pressed in from all sides like it wanted to crush her.

She could barely breathe.

But she forced herself forward.

Just as her feet broke past the emergency line—just as she sprinted toward the direction of the collapsed lobby doors of the apartment complex—he grabbed her.

A firm hand locked around her arm, pulling her back with the strength of a steel cable.

"You! Stop right there!"

She twisted, resisting instinctively, but the grip didn’t yield. She turned and found herself once more staring into the cold, commanding eyes of Wriothesley, Chief of Police—his expression unreadable behind the thick ash smudging his jawline, his dark uniform marked with dust and heat damage.

His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "You don’t get to run headfirst into a burning zone. Not on my watch."

"I need to get in there!" she cried, breath hitching as she fought to pull away.

"You are not going anywhere near that tower," he said firmly, dragging her a few steps back. "We’ve got the Green Ghost already inside handling the threat and every available officer clearing out civilians. That rooftop’s a kill zone."

"It’s not just some monster up there!" she shot back, her voice cracking. "I know who it is—please, I need to get through!"

Wriothesley narrowed his eyes. His grip didn’t loosen. "And what are you going to do? Huh? Get yourself killed? This is a high-risk tactical engagement with civilian casualties. My men are trying to hold the lines while that thing up there tries to level a district. You going up there doesn’t help anyone."

She shook her head, tears already burning at the corners of her eyes.

"You don’t understand… it’s not just a monster. It’s my best friend. His name is Sethos," she said through gritted teeth, chest heaving. "Please, I need to get through to him!"

Wriothesley’s brows furrowed slightly at the name, but his grip remained strong.

“You think you're the only one who’s lost people to this kind of madness?” he said quietly. “I’ve seen friends go under. I’ve seen good men twisted into shadows of themselves by power they can’t control. You can’t save someone if you’re lying in the rubble beside them.”

[Y/N] trembled.

Not from fear—but from the crushing weight in her chest.

"I have to try," she whispered. "Because if I don’t… and he dies up there thinking he’s nothing but a monster—I’ll never forgive myself."

Wriothesley stared at her.

Behind them, a sonic blast shook the entire street. Officers stumbled as the ground trembled, and another floor of the building above gave out with a roaring groan, dislodging a wave of dust and steel that cascaded down the tower like a collapsing dam. A nearby support beam fell with a thunderous crash, barely missing an armored police truck by inches. Wriothesley’s head snapped upward.

The upper floors of the apartment complex gave out in a violent shudder. A torrent of debris—glass, steel, and concrete—cascaded down in a blinding, thunderous wave. Screams erupted from every direction as officers stumbled back, shielding civilians and ducking for cover. Dust and smoke swallowed the road in seconds, blanketing the scene in suffocating gray.

And in that split second—

[Y/N] moved.

She twisted her body sharply, snatching her arm from Wriothesley’s loosened grip. His reaction was fast, but not fast enough—not when the world around them was shattering, not when instinct overtook discipline.

She ran.

Shoes striking asphalt. Heart pounding like war drums.

Her breath hitched in her chest as she ducked beneath a broken barricade, weaving through gaps between crumpled patrol cars and twisted steel road signs. She heard Wriothesley shouting behind her—her name, a sharp order, maybe even a curse—but the words blurred behind the roar of collapsing metal and her own pulse thrumming in her ears. The building loomed above like a wounded beast, howling with every convulsion of battle on its rooftop spine. Shattered windows flickered with broken light. The very air trembled with each strike exchanged above.

Still, she ran.

A half-bent service door near the base had come ajar during the tremors, and she flung herself through it without hesitation. The interior was worse—dim and reeking of burnt plastic and ozone, emergency lights blinking weakly through the smoke. Rubble littered the floor like bones.

[Y/N] staggered forward, hand grazing the chipped wall as she moved.

The stairwell was barely holding together.

Chunks of concrete had already collapsed across several steps, forcing her to climb over twisted rebar and broken railing. Her lungs screamed with every breath, already heavy from the outside smoke. Ash clung to her lashes. She wiped it away with the back of her sleeve, leaving behind a streak of soot and sweat on her cheek.

The building groaned.

Far above, another explosion rocked the upper floors, sending a fresh tremor down the spine of the tower. [Y/N] lost her balance briefly, catching herself against the wall just as a piece of the ceiling cracked loose above her.

She barely looked up in time.

A chunk of concrete—small but sharp—slammed into the side of her head.

Pain exploded behind her temple. She dropped to her knees with a gasp, one hand flying to the wound. Her fingers came away wet. Blood. Hot and sticky. It ran down the side of her face and stained the edge of her collar.

The world swayed for a moment. The stairwell tilted beneath her. Darkness flirted at the edges of her vision.

But then—she heard it again.

The faintest rumble from above.

A roar.

Half-beast, half-human. Sethos.

Her heart kicked back into motion.

She pressed her palm to the floor, gritting her teeth, willing herself up.

Move.

Her legs shook as she stood. Her vision still swam—but her body obeyed. Pain dulled into background noise, swallowed by adrenaline, fury, and desperation. She wiped the blood from her eye and forced herself up another flight, then another. Her foot slipped once on a wet patch—maybe water, maybe something else—but she didn’t stop.

Every floor she passed had been gutted by damage. Walls buckled inward. Doors hung from their hinges. Ceiling tiles rained down without warning. She ducked, scrambled, and climbed over a shattered vending machine that had lodged into the stairwell like a coffin. The building was alive with collapse—cracking, moaning, and breathing fire.

She didn’t care.

All that mattered was getting higher.

She passed the 7th floor. Then the 9th.

Her legs begged to be relieved of their burden, but she was too blinded by her desperation to reach the rooftop.

She could feel it now—closer. The tremors. The flashes. The pulses of kinetic force shaking the very bones of the building. She didn’t care if she had to throw herself between them.

She just had to get there first.

Another piece of debris tumbled from above. This time, she ducked faster—instinct taking over thought. She scaled over a collapsed section of railing, nails digging into the concrete for balance. Her shoulders ached. Her ribs throbbed. Her head pounded with every step, but none of it was enough to stop her.

The 10th floor came into view—and just beyond it, she saw it. Light. A shattered maintenance hatch leading to the rooftop. The edges glowed with green static, flickering in time with distant collisions above.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Almost there.

The word pulsed in her chest like a lifeline, even as her vision blurred from smoke and the dull throb of the wound on her temple. Her lungs were ragged now—burning from the toxic air and the uphill sprint through broken concrete. Every inch of her body ached. Her heartbeat thudded behind her ears like war drums.

She reached the top step, stumbled, caught herself—then saw it.

The steel rooftop door.

Battered. Bent. Barely holding to its hinges.

Light bled from its cracks.

Sickly green. Blazing purple. Lightning flickers. The war beyond.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.

Heat radiated from the metal like it had touched the sun. For one second—just one—she hesitated.

Then she pushed.

The door slammed open with a screeching clang.

And the sky exploded before her.

The rooftop had become a battlefield—no, a crater. Half the ledge had already collapsed, parts of the floor scorched and cracked with each strike that had landed. Fires burned in the corners where metal beams had pierced the concrete. Shattered pieces of antennae and shattered drones lay in ruins.

And in the heart of it—

Two figures collided like gods.

And now… she was the only witness.

The screen cut to grainy, chaotic footage taken from someone’s phone. The camera jostled violently, capturing flashes of movement between broken structures and shattered vehicles. A monster barreled through the wreckage—a creature with the hunched silhouette of a rifthound, elongated limbs twisted with muscle and madness, and claws glinting like polished obsidian. Its mouth—if it could even be called that—split open too wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and its back was layered with gnarled, armored ridges. Yet beneath the horrific figure, the grainy lens caught something else.

Torn clothes. A familiar shade of dark purple and orange. Barely visible under blood and grime, but unmistakable.

[Y/N] burst down the stairs, phone in hand, her breathing ragged. Her heart had been hammering since the first screech of the broadcast, since her eyes caught the monster—no, the person—on the screen. Ever since she spent her time pathetically crying over a realization she couldn't accept, she won't allow herself to do nothing when her best friend writhes in agony because of a simple mishap. She had to act fast. Even without a lead to follow, she had to try something, anything, to save her friend.

Then she didn’t even hear her mother at first upon noticing her haste and didn’t register the woman’s voice over the sound of her thudding pulse.

"Where are you going?" her mother called sharply from the kitchen, her voice a mixture of fear and anger. Then her eyes widened when she noticed that her daughter was about to open the door, and she immediately called her out worriedly. "It’s not safe, [Y/N]! There’s something out there—!"

"I know!" [Y/N] finally snapped, already fumbling through the several house keys attached to the chain, trying to figure out which one was the right one for the lock, then she clicked her tongue in frustration when she connected the wrong key.

But the screen behind her held her mother captive. The monstrous figure on the screen let out a guttural roar, lunging at another group of officers who screamed and scattered. The footage ended with the phone clattering to the pavement, static lines consuming the frame.

It was enough for [Y/N]’s mother to see the danger lies just beyond their doorstep. Enough to understand to trust her maternal instinct that had been warning her of impending danger if she allowed her daughter to take a single step, or she would lose her forever—just like how she lost her husband years ago.

No. Never again.

She stomped over to her daughter as she grabbed her daughter's wrist firmly, her voice now brittle with disbelief. "[Y/N], I'm begging you, don't go outside! You'll get involved in something you can't handle!"

[Y/N] went rigid at the threshold, her hand trembling where it gripped the doorknob, while the other wrapped around her mother's desperate yet tight hold. She didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. But her voice cracked when she spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she said quietly and immediately ripped the grip of her mother's hand away.

"What? [Y/N], wait—!"

But she was already gone.

She bolted out the door before her mother could protest again, the slam echoing through the house like thunder. Her mother’s voice chased her down the walkway, racing up to catch up to her speed, trembling with fear and confusion, but [Y/N] kept going, running as though the answers were just down the street. As though Sethos might be standing there waiting for her with that crooked grin, teasing her for being dramatic.

But that wasn’t the truth. And she knew it.

Her lungs ached with every breath, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not after seeing what he had become—not after the recognition settled in her chest like ice. The wildness in his eyes, even through the blur of the footage. The way his body twisted, caught halfway between boy and beast. No matter how horrible, how inhuman he looked… she knew it was him.

And he was alone.

She pushed herself harder, her footsteps pounding the pavement under streetlamps that buzzed weakly overhead. The city around her was too quiet—eerily so. Windows were shut. Stores closed early. The air felt thick, as if something wrong hung just above the rooftops, watching.

Sethos. Where are you?

[Y/N] fought to push away the image of his claws dragging through the concrete, of his face half-swallowed by corruption. She knew he was in pain—she had to believe it. That there was something of him still in there. That the boy who blushed at compliments, who grinned when she said his name, who sketched her in quiet parks, and who loved her so dearly—was still fighting under the surface.

He had to be.

And if no one else would find him, then she would.

[Y/N] ran down another empty block, the cool night air slicing against her skin, her chest heaving with emotion and panic. Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone again, struggling to keep it steady as she dialed.

The first call went unanswered, then the second, then the third.

"Come on… please," she whispered, biting her lip, her eyes already stinging with unshed tears.

On the fourth ring, the call finally connected.

"Kinich!" she breathed, voice cracking with desperation. She leaned against the cold brick wall of a nearby building, her fingers white around the phone. "Are—are you okay? Did you see the news? Have you heard anything—anything at all about the abyssal monster attacking the city?!"

Kinich, currently high above the city skyline, paused mid-swing. His pixelated green grappling hook retracted quietly against his wrist as he perched atop the edge of a tall structure, wind pulling at the edges of his suit.

He stared down at the chaos still flickering below in distant sirens and spotlights. His heart was still racing. He had seen the aftermath—a dead body, the mangled destruction at the lab. The burnt stench of abyssal energy still clung to his mask.

But she didn’t know that. Not yet.

"No," Kinich lied quietly, steadying his breath. "Why? What’s going on?"

On the other end, [Y/N] slowly slid down the wall, curling into herself as the first sob broke from her throat.

"I… I have Sethos’s sketchbook. Or—no. I thought it was the sketchbook."

Kinich’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask.

"I opened it. I wasn’t going to, but—God, Kinich, I shouldn’t have—but I did. And it’s not drawings of me or anything like that. It’s notes. Pages and pages of notes about injections, about… about the energy. The abyssal energy. He’s been taking something just to stay normal. Just to keep from turning into—"

She choked on her words, then followed a torrent of sobs. "This is all my fault…" she whispered, covering her face with her hand as if she was so ashamed of herself.

These new revelations hit him like a gut punch. He staggered back a step, his grip tightening around the railing.

"What?" he murmured under his breath.

"I know it’s him," [Y/N] pressed on, her tears coming freely now. "That—that I saw the way it moved—the way it clawed through the street. And the eyes—Kinich, it’s him, I’m telling you! I know him!"

She covered her mouth as another sob escaped. "He’s been hiding it all this time. He never told us, never even hinted. Fuck—I'm so stupid for not noticing!"

Kinich tried to speak. But his tongue felt numb. His mouth was dry.

"What if…" Her voice turned into a whisper—fragile, like the dying echo of a scream. "What if I’m the reason he broke?"

Kinich blinked. “Huh?”

"What if I’m the reason he lost control?" she repeated, barely audible. Then she let out an anguished cry, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "If I'd known that discovering his secret would lead to his demise, then I wouldn't have accepted the notebook! Or—or…"

Then she gave a humorless laugh, bitter and breathless. "He was trying so hard to stay human… and now everyone’s calling him a monster." Then her face quickly fell, her eyes filling with tears as she realized the weight of her actions. "I never meant for this to happen," she whispered, her voice breaking with regret.

Kinich’s voice cracked through the receiver. "…You didn’t make him break."

"You don’t know that!" she shouted suddenly, raw and hurting. "You didn’t see what I saw in that notebook! He was fucking scared, Kinich! Scared of telling us. Scared of what we’d think! And I just—sat there. I let him pretend everything was fine. I smiled back like a fool while he was dying inside!"

Kinich shut his eyes. Her words struck deeper than she could know. Because I was too busy keeping my secret… to notice his. His pain. His demise. He deserved to be blamed too…

"…I’ll find him," he whispered, a tremor in his voice.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, as if hope had suddenly flared alive in [Y/N]’s lungs.

"What?"

"I’ll find Sethos," he repeated, forcing the tremor out of his voice. "Wherever he is… whatever he’s become… I’ll bring him home."

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the distant wail of sirens echoing through the city and the hiss of wind scraping past concrete walls. Kinich clutched the railing tightly, the metal biting into his skin. His knuckles had gone bone-white.

Then her voice came again—soft at first, but pulsing with urgency.

"Then let me come with you."

His heart dropped.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The request hit like a splash of cold water, jolting his breath into stillness. He had braced himself for a hundred possible responses, but not this.

"I have to go," she said again, stronger this time. "Please, Kinich. If something happens to him and I’m not there—if he thinks I gave up on him—I’ll never forgive myself."

Kinich stared down at the cracked streets far below, his pulse a dull roar in his ears. Every part of him wanted to tell her no. Don’t follow me into this storm. Stay in the light.

But she sounded like she was already crumbling in the dark.

"He needs us," she continued, the words tumbling out with the kind of desperation that made his chest tighten. "You said it yourself. He’s breaking. Then let me be there—to help catch him before he falls too far."

Her voice wavered on the last word, fraying like fabric pulled too tight. "I love him, Kinich. That has to mean something."

Oh, the faint cracking on his heart.

Kinich slowly turned away from the ledge, pressing his back against the railing like he needed something to hold him up. The weight of what she was asking pressed into his spine like a vise. "No," he said gently but firmly. "It’s too dangerous."

"I don’t care!" she snapped, her grief igniting like dry leaves to flame. "You’re not listening—he needs me! If he’s hurting, if he’s scared, I have to be there. I can’t just sit here while he tears himself apart!"

Her voice cracked with raw sorrow. Kinich could hear her pacing now, could picture her tightly gripping her chest or pressing her hand against a wall, just trying to stay upright. "I know him better than anyone," she whispered. "I can reach him. If anyone can—it’s me."

Kinich’s hand trembled. He clenched it into a fist, nails digging into his palm. It was like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, and she was reaching for him from the other side, begging him to let her jump with him. He couldn't.

"No," he said again. Firmer. Colder.

Silence.

"…Why not?" she asked, stunned.

Kinich’s jaw locked, and he looked toward the night sky as if the answer would be written among the stars. But there were no stars. Just black clouds rolling overhead, heavy with the storm to come.

"You have no place in this fight," he said, voice clipped.

She recoiled like she’d been slapped. "What?"

"You don’t belong out there," he said, and the words came out sharper than he meant them to, each syllable like a thrown blade. "You don’t even know what the hell we’re facing."

There was a breath of silence, heavy and stunned.

"I know him," she said fiercely. "That should count for something."

Kinich exhaled slowly, like he was bleeding through his teeth. "You think that’s enough? That knowing how he laughs or what songs make him smile is going to help when he’s clawing through pavement like it’s paper? When there’s blood in the streets and people are screaming and running for their lives?!"

She flinched. Even through the phone, Kinich could feel it.

He paused, swallowing hard. Shit… He didn't want to shout at her, but… she's too stubborn to see reason sometimes.

"And if I bring you out there and he sees you—if he hurts you—"

"Then let me take that risk!" she shouted. "I want to take that risk!"

"Why?!" Kinich exploded. "So you can get torn apart trying to reach a version of him that might not even be there anymore?!"

He was pacing now, steps harsh against the rooftop gravel, each movement desperate to burn off the storm inside him. The truth surged up in his throat, threatening to choke him.

"I already have to worry about losing him. Don’t make me worry about losing you too."

"I’m not just someone who loves him," she said, quieter now. "I’m someone who would die for him."

The words hit like a clap of thunder, and for a second, Kinich couldn’t breathe.

"…Doesn’t that mean anything to you?"

His eyes fluttered closed, lashes wet with unshed emotion.

He wanted to say yes.

He wanted to say it meant everything.

But the truth was, he couldn’t bear the idea of her being caught in the crossfire. She was the last warm thing left in the cold war that surrounded him.

And if she died trying to save a boy who might not come back…

He’d never forgive himself.

"…You have no idea what you’re walking into,” he whispered, voice hollow. “And I’m not willing to lose you too."

There was a long pause. Then:

Click.

The call ended.

Kinich lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen like it had just severed a lifeline. The rooftop felt emptier than before—quieter. The wind howled louder now, mocking him.

He stood still in the shadows, the cold creeping into his bones.

He had just broken her heart to protect her.

And for the first time…

He wasn’t sure if he’d just saved her or made the biggest mistake of his life.

—

The world was noise.

Not sound. Not music. Not even screams. Just noise—raw, feral, mind-rending—like metal scraping against bone.

Sethos couldn’t tell where it began or where it ended. He only knew the thundering in his ears was louder than the gunfire, louder than the shrieks echoing through the collapsing alleyways. It beat behind his eyes, underneath his skin, and down to his marrow. It felt like his body was boiling from the inside out, something rotten and ancient tearing through his ribs and spine with every jagged breath.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last blinked.

He didn’t know where he was.

Didn’t care.

Not anymore.

He couldn’t feel his hands. Only claws—elongated, obsidian-black, curved like sickles. They twitched and clicked as he moved, each finger no longer human but something more primal. More cruel. His arms were armored with a sickly, matte carapace that shifted as he moved, mottled with streaks of crimson and ink-black veins. His shoulders were broader, heavier. His muscles twitched without command. Every movement came with a low, vibrating growl that rattled his throat—not in frustration or anger, but in hunger.

He staggered into the open street, massive clawed feet cracking the pavement beneath him. Car alarms wailed as the impact shook the ground, sending vibrations up streetlamps and fire escapes. His silhouette was tall—inhumanly tall—nearly eight feet, if not more. His body was warped, curved forward in a near-bestial posture, like a hound ready to pounce, but every inch of him throbbed with brute force barely contained beneath his warped skin.

BANG!

A bullet struck him square in the shoulder.

He barely flinched.

Another one. BANG! BANG!

He turned his head slowly.

His eyes—if they could still be called that—glowed a deep, molten gold, like stars dipped in blood. No pupils. No whites. Just endless burning.

Across the street, a squad of armored police was shouting something—orders, probably. He couldn’t make out the words through the ringing in his skull. All he saw were barrels trained on him. Tiny black circles. Threats.

Threats.

His lips peeled back into a snarl. Jagged, uneven fangs glinted in the half-light, drenched in gore. His jaw was longer now, slightly more protruding than a human's, and the lines of his skull shifted into something canine, something warped. Something's wrong.

They fired again. Flashes of light. Hot bites against his body.

He roared.

Not screamed—roared, like a creature pulled from the pit of some forgotten world. The sound split the air, sent windows shattering from nearby shops, and made even the bravest officer hesitate.

Then he moved.

One leap.

One.

He was on them before they could reload.

Claws swept through flesh like paper. Screams were brief and wet. Armor offered no protection—not when the creature’s limbs moved like a storm and his strength cracked bone with a flick of his wrist. One officer went flying through a brick wall, his body folding in ways no body should. Another was cleaved in two, the halves skidding across the pavement in a trail of blood and steel.

Chaos erupted.

Civilians screamed and fled in droves, trampling over one another as the shadow tore through the street. Some didn’t get far—crushed by falling signs, caught in the path of a stray strike, or pinned beneath rubble as buildings cracked from the tremors.

He kept moving.

Streetlamps bent as he brushed past them. Cars flipped as he hurled them aside like toys, their alarms blaring in protest before silencing in smoke. A fire hydrant burst nearby, spewing water into the air like a fountain of mourning.

Everywhere he went, fear followed.

But Sethos—what was left of Sethos—wasn’t feeling fear, or rage, or guilt.

He wasn’t feeling anything.

His mind was fog—thick and venomous, a venom-laced vapor that clogged every corner of his consciousness, turning thoughts into slush and memories into shattered glass.

His name—his real name—floated somewhere behind the curtain."Sethos," it echoed faintly, like a childhood song underwater. But it no longer fit. It didn’t feel like it belonged to this body.

His hands—if they could still be called that—were weapons now. Elongated, gauntleted in pulsating black hide, sinew stretched tight over obsidian bone. Talons curled at the ends, slick with blood and something thicker, darker—an inky fluid that hissed when it touched the pavement.

And then—

It spoke.

A voice—not with breath, not with sound, but with pure, vibrating presence inside the rot of his skull.

ŦĦ€Ř€ ¥ØỮ ΔŘ€, ŁƗŦŦŁ€ ŦĦƗŇǤ. Ŵ€ΔŘƗŇǤ ¥ØỮŘ ŞҜƗŇ ΔŁŁ ŴŘØŇǤ ΔǤΔƗŇ.

It was wrong.

The voice had no tone, no pitch. It bent the tone. It slid under the tongue, wrapped itself around the back of his teeth, and dripped like molten tar straight into the crevices of his mind. It sounded like every dying whisper he’d ever heard, spoken by a chorus of unhinged mouths, too many to count, all smiling.

¥ØỮ Ħ€ΔŘ ŦĦΔŦ, ĐØŇ’Ŧ ¥ØỮ? ŦĦ€ ŞƗŁ€ŇĆ€? ŦĦ€ ŞĆŘ€ΔΜŞ? ŦĦ€ ŴΔ¥ ŦĦ€¥ βŁ€ŇĐ ƗŇŦØ ΜỮŞƗĆ? ¥ØỮ ΜΔĐ€ ŦĦΔŦ. ¥ØỮ ŞĦØỮŁĐ β€ ƤŘØỮĐ!

His clawed feet crushed the remnants of a street sign as he stepped forward—clack, crunch, the sound sharp like bones snapping. Blood pooled into his footprints. Somewhere, a car’s blaring alarm faded out with a dying whine, swallowed by the smell of smoke and burning wires.

He was towering now—easily nine feet. His body twisted beyond symmetry, a rifthound’s grotesque silhouette forced into humanoid mockery. His ribcage split wider with every breath, skin stretched tight over shifting muscle, every inch of him built for the sole purpose of ruin. Patches of mangled fur tore through blistered flesh across his spine and shoulders, matted with ash and filth. A long, snapping tail dragged behind him, twitching with feral anticipation.

¥ØỮ ŦĦØỮǤĦŦ ŦĦ€¥’Đ ŁØV€ ¥ØỮ. ŦĦØỮǤĦŦ ŦĦ€¥'Đ ŁØØҜ ΔŦ ¥ØỮ ΔŇĐ Ş€€ Δ βØ¥. βỮŦ ¥ØỮ ΔŘ€ Ŧ€€ŦĦ, ΔŇĐ ĆŁΔŴ, ΔŇĐ ŘỮƗŇ. ŦĦ€¥ Ş€€ ŦĦΔŦ ŇØŴ, ĐØŇ’Ŧ ŦĦ€¥?

Sethos lurched forward, shoulders hunched, arms swinging as he moved like a beast unchained. Sparks erupted as his claws scraped against pavement, carving deep trenches with each step.

BANG!

Another pestering bullet.

Then two more.

BANG! BANG!

Pain bloomed briefly along his shoulder, but it was faint—almost insulting. Like a mosquito bite trying to kill a storm.

He turned his head slowly.

Police. Four of them. One shouting into a radio, the others taking aim, legs trembling.

Sethos didn’t run.

He descended.

With one leap, he crashed into them like a wrecking force made of rage and bone. One officer was impaled before he could scream, his body lifted off the ground on a claw like a discarded puppet. Another tried to run—he never made it. Sethos’s tail lashed sideways, and the man hit a wall hard enough to crack stone.

Blood rained. Misted the air.

Sethos panted, tongue lolling from between jagged teeth. It was forked. Barbed. Wrong.

ΜØŘ€. ΜØŘ€. ΜØŘ€. Ł€Ŧ ŦĦ€ Μ€ΔŦ ŘỮŇ, Ł€Ŧ ŦĦ€ Μ€ΔŦ ŞĆŘ€ΔΜ.

Civilians shrieked and scattered. A woman in a red dress was crushed beneath a falling light pole. A man dragged his injured son through a broken storefront window. Behind them, flames licked their backs like hunting hounds.

Ş€€ ĦØŴ ŦĦ€¥ ŞĆŘΔΜβŁ€? ŁƗŦŦŁ€ ŘΔŦŞ. ŁƗŦŦŁ€ ΜƗĆ€. ¥ØỮ’Ř€ ŦĦ€ β€ΔŞŦ ŇØŴ. ¥ØỮ ΔŘ€ Đ€ΔŦĦ ΔŇРЀŞƗǤŇ ΔŇРЀŞŦƗŇ¥.

The voice was practically giggling now, unraveling with manic delight.

Ŧ€ΔŘ ŦĦ€Μ ΔƤΔŘŦ, Ş€ŦĦØŞ. βỮŘŇ ¥ØỮŘ ŇΔΜ€ ƗŇŦØ ŦĦ€ €ΔŘŦĦ. Ł€Ŧ ŦĦ€ ŴØŘŁĐ ҜŇØŴ ŴĦØ ¥ØỮ ΔŘ€—ŴĦΔŦ ¥ØỮ Ŵ€Ř€ ΔŁŴΔ¥Ş Μ€ΔŇŦ ŦØ β€.

His claws clamped into a nearby car. Metal shrieked as he lifted it above his head and hurled it like a toy into the second story of a nearby apartment complex. A fiery blast rocked the street, glass and steel and furniture flinging into the air like confetti.

He didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

His limbs moved like they weren’t his, driven by something coiled deep within—older than language, colder than space.

A man screamed for help, crawling on bleeding palms. Sethos reached for him—

But then—

He froze.

A flicker. A moment. A heartbeat lodged in his ribcage.

The man’s face warped into another’s—

Her face.

[Y/N].

Her voice, distant, trembling—

"Sethos, stop…You have to stop and snap out of it!"

Pain.

Real, blistering pain erupted across his chest. He stumbled backward, claws trembling, heart convulsing violently.

ŇØ.

The voice shrieked.

ŦĦΔŦ ŇΔΜ€ ƗŞ ƤØƗŞØŇ. ŦĦΔŦ ǤƗŘŁ ƗŞ Δ ĆĦΔƗŇ. Ŧ€ΔŘ Ħ€Ř ₣ŘØΜ ¥ØỮŘ ΜƗŇĐ. ŘƗƤ ØỮŦ ŦĦΔŦ ŞØ₣ŦŇ€ŞŞ—ĆỮŦ ƗŦ ØỮŦ β€₣ØŘ€ ƗŦ ĆỮŦŞ ¥ØỮ.

Sethos dropped to all fours again, snarling and gasping. Slobber trailed from his mouth. His tongue thrashed. The blackness in his brain throbbed louder.

ŦĦƗŞ ƗŞ ¥ØỮŘ ĆĦΔŇĆ€ ŦØ ŞĦØŴ ĦỮΜΔŇƗŦ¥ ŴĦØ ŦĦ€¥ ŞĦØỮŁĐ β€ Δ₣ŘΔƗĐ Ø₣!

ŇØŴ ŞŦΔŇĐ ỮƤ—ΔŇĐ €ŇĐ ŦĦƗŞ ĆƗŦ¥.

A shriek ripped from his throat. Not human. Not beast. Something worse.

And with that scream—

He charged again.

Past the fires. Past the bodies. Past the line between who he was… and what he had become, the monster’s howl shattered windows two blocks away. Streetlights flickered. Fire roared hungrily through collapsed storefronts. Rubble buried the innocent and the unlucky alike. Blood streaked the gutters, and fear hung thick in the air—metallic and hot like rusted wires beneath the skin.

Sethos—what remained of him—dragged his claws across the asphalt, carving deep grooves in the ground. His breath came out in hoarse, monstrous pants. The world around him was broken, just like him.

Then out of nowhere, something sliced through the sky like a comet—glowing, pixelated, flickering between reality and code. It struck with force, slamming into Sethos’ midsection and coiling tight, anchoring with sharp green spikes of hard-light that dug into his armor.

He staggered.

And then came the voice.

"Get down."

Sethos twisted with an inhuman screech just as a green blur dropped from the roofline.

Kinich. No—Green Ghost.

His boots crashed into the pavement like a sonic boom. The pixels trailing behind him snapped like snapping circuits. The grappling line strained, glowing brighter with every second it resisted Sethos’ sheer mass. The tether buzzed with corrupted data energy, sending flickers of static into the fog-drenched air.

Kinich’s stance was wide and grounded. His helmet gleamed; the visor was cracked faintly from earlier impacts. A thin trail of blood dripped from beneath the mask—but his hands were steady.

Barely.

His heart was screaming.

Because what stood before him wasn’t just the threat to the city.

…This is his best friend. The brother he fought beside. The boy who once dreamed of being more than the fate their blood had given them.

Now look at them.

One barely a man.

The other is barely human.

Kinich tightened his grip. The grappling hook shimmered—then disassembled midair into a cyclone of glowing green pixels.

They swirled around his arm before congealing into something new. Bigger. Heavier. Sharper.

The transformation was seamless.

In seconds, he was wielding a massive, glowing cannon shaped like a snarling serpent coiled into a draconic blaster. Its form shimmered with acidic yellow-green data, carved with jagged digital glyphs that twisted unnaturally along the barrel. The dragon’s jaw hung open at the mouth of the weapon, where light was already collecting.

Scalespiker Cannon—fully formed.

It hummed with power. The ground around Kinich shimmered slightly, pulled toward the charging core of the cannon like metal to a magnet. He stepped forward.

His shoulders trembled under the cannon’s weight—not physically, but emotionally. The mask hid the torn expression behind it. His breaths came ragged. Measured.

Across from him, Sethos writhed against the fading tether, claws scraping sparks from the ground as he roared and yanked, over and over, trying to break free.

"You’re not even fighting it anymore…" Kinich muttered under his breath. "Are you?"

A distorted scream tore from Sethos’s throat, snapping his head forward with rage. His fangs were bared. His molten eyes locked onto Kinich like prey. He doesn't recognize me.

That hurt more than the rest combined.

Kinich lifted the cannon slowly. His arms were rigid, jaw locked tight.

"I told her I’d bring you back," he whispered—words meant for his friend, not the monster.

The dragon cannon’s mouth cracked wider as power surged through the body. The energy core was now spinning violently, pixelated particles orbiting like a miniature sun, strobing the alleyway in flashes of lime and white.

"But if you take one more step…" His voice cracked. "...I'll stop lying."

Sethos lunged.

The earth cracked beneath his step. His claws slashed forward, mouth wide open in a snarl that could have swallowed a man whole.

Kinich didn’t flinch.

He pulled the trigger.

The Scalespiker roared to life.

The cannon fired with the force of a thunderclap and the wail of a banshee, unleashing a spiraling beam of pure digital fury. It screeched like a dragon’s breath, green-yellow energy lined with jagged streaks of white heat.

The blast hit dead-on.

Sethos screamed.

Not a roar, not a threat, but a scream.

Agonized. Gut-wrenching, as if every inch of who he used to be was being burned alive.

The beam engulfed him whole—his silhouette flickering inside the blast, spasming against the onslaught of raw data and focused destruction. The scales across his chest cracked. His claws flailed as the tether finally snapped from the recoil. Fractures spread across his shoulders like molten veins—white hot and bursting from beneath. Kinich gritted his teeth, holding the cannon steady as debris lifted into the air around him. Streetlamps shattered. Asphalt peeled. Even the air trembled with the weight of the shot.

Then—

Silence.

The cannon powered down with a fading whir.

The dragon’s mouth closed.

Smoke as thick as ocean fog curled across the battlefield, hiding everything. Kinich lowered the weapon slowly, his fingers locked stiff around the grip. His whole body shook beneath the weight of what he just did.

And he stared into the smoke as he carefully approached with a heavy heart.

"I'm sorry."

Sethos kept a close eye on the girl at his side. Then he darted his gaze to where she was currently updating her mother about their whereabouts on her phone. Though he didn’t mean to peer over at her private conversation, he found himself lingering anyway—watching the gentle slope of her nose, the faint curve of her smile, and the way the sunlight shimmered along the strands of her hair like it was being painted strand by strand in gold.

He was quiet.

Not because he had nothing to say, but because moments like these felt rare. Like if he spoke too loudly, they might dissolve.

Even so, he liked that smile. It was soft and private. The kind people only gave to someone they trusted.

When she finally tucked her phone back into her pocket, she glanced at him sheepishly. "Sorry—Mom was just checking in, just reminding me to come home before it gets dark."

Sethos huffed a small laugh and then ruffled her hair in a playful manner. "It's alright, princess."

She gave him a playful nudge, and he leaned into it.

As they reached the quiet curve of a walking path beneath the dense leaves of a flame tree, the filtered light pooling around them like melted amber, Sethos slowed his steps and shifted the tote off his shoulder.

He rifled through it, unhurried but clearly looking for something. "[Y/N]," he said, his voice soft but not uncertain.

She looked over, her phone already tucked away, a curious tilt to her head. "Yeah?"

He pulled out what seemed to look like a dark blue sketchbook, a thick one with its corners slightly worn and a little graphite smudge along the spine. Holding it by the top edge with his fingers, he offered it out to her. "I know you didn’t get to see much earlier," he said, "but… there are a few other drawings I’ve done that I think you might like."

[Y/N] blinked, her gaze flickering from the book to his face. "You’re really okay with that? I mean… you’re kind of protective of your stuff."

Sethos gave a slow, sheepish shrug and looked away for a second, pretending to brush dust off his bike handle. "Yeah, I usually am," he admitted. "But you’re different."

The words came out quietly. Honest. No dramatics, no teasing. It made her heartbeat catch just a little. Still, she hesitated, fingers brushing the cover but not yet accepting it. "Are you sure?"

He met her eyes. There was something tired but warm in his expression, like he’d stopped pretending to hold back. "If you ever doubted how I feel about you… just look through that. It’s all there."

This time she took it gently, carefully, like something fragile. The cover was heavier than she expected, the pages thick. Worn. Like it had been flipped through many times. Lived in.

Sethos let out a breath through his nose, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He looked away bashfully, his hand covering his mouth as he cleared his throat. "I hope you enjoy it," he said softly, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

There was no smirk, no dramatic pause. Just a quiet truth passed between them.

Her fingers closed around the edge of the sketchbook, drawing it slowly toward her chest like something fragile, something personal. She hasn’t opened it yet. She just held it, feeling the weight of it in her arms—thicker than she expected. A little heavy. Maybe from years of quiet hours alone with pencil and paper. Or maybe from something else entirely.

Sethos gave her a side glance, then rubbed the back of his neck. 'You can check it out later, or whenever. Just—don’t judge too hard, yeah? "

"I won’t," she said, her gaze still on the sketchbook.

And that was it.

Their pace resumed, slow and unhurried. Somewhere in the distance, the last few families were packing up their own picnics, children chasing fireflies as dusk settled over the park like a worn blanket. The bike creaked gently beside them as Sethos pushed it forward.

And behind them, their footprints faded softly into the grass, as if the world itself had taken care not to disturb the moment.

The sun had finally begun its descent behind the trees, casting long amber streaks across the emptying park as the world slowly tipped into dusk. A breeze rolled in, gentler now, brushing through the leaves like a lullaby. Sethos tightened the strap on the picnic tote before securing it into the bike’s rear basket. His movements were practiced and focused—but his eyes kept flicking up to her.

[Y/N] stood nearby, holding the sketchbook loosely in her arms, cradling it against her chest like it meant something. Like it had weight beyond paper and graphite.

He smiled to himself before giving the handlebars a small shake. "Alright," he said, turning toward her with a bright grin. "Ready to ride?"

She nodded once, her fingers curling just a little tighter around the book. "Just… don’t go too fast, okay?"

Sethos chuckled, already steadying the bike with one leg. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

He mounted the seat with easy balance, then patted the space just behind him on the long, flat seat attached to the frame. "C’mon, I’ve got you."

A pause.

Then a careful step forward.

[Y/N] moved slowly, trying not to seem too hesitant, but he caught the way her eyes darted to the pedals and the way she smoothed the back of her skirt before sitting. Sethos immediately reached back without looking and gripped the seat behind him, steadying it as she climbed on. "There," he said quietly, not teasing—just warm. "Got you."

She settled behind him, legs tucked carefully, her knees brushing either side of his hips. The quiet creak of the springs under her weight and the soft shift of fabric were the only sounds between them.

Then came the part that made her hesitate again.

She was still holding the sketchbook.

"Where should I…?"

"Here." He reached back carefully, and she handed it to him. He slipped it into the side pouch of the basket with surprising gentleness. "Safe and sound."

When she remained stiff behind him, hands awkwardly gripping the edge of the seat, he leaned his head slightly to the side. "You can hold onto me, you know."

She blinked.

"Just like before, right?" he added, but the edges of his voice were sheepish, like he wasn’t entirely sure that was the real reason.

A breath.

Then slowly, her arms circled around his middle—light at first, barely touching.

"You’ll fall off if you’re still that shy about it," he muttered, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. His grin softened. "C’mon. You trust me, don’t you?"

She didn’t say anything.

But she did hold him a little tighter.

And with that, Sethos pushed off the grass path and began pedaling.

The ride was quiet at first, save for the gentle thrum of tires on pavement and the hum of early evening settling over the neighborhood. Street lamps flickered on in scattered intervals as the sky dimmed into a smoky mauve, casting long lines across the sidewalks and hedges. Children’s laughter still echoed faintly from backyards as families wound down their weekends.

Sethos took the long way home—not to stall, exactly, but because he liked the quiet corners of the town she called home. He liked how the houses looked lived-in, warm, and a little crooked from age. He liked how her arms felt around his waist—how she wasn’t so tense anymore, resting lightly against his back as the wind tousled her hair.

It felt too intimate…

"You cold?" he asked at one point, voice low.

"No," she murmured. "It’s… nice."

His hands tightened slightly around the handlebars. "I’m glad," he said.

They passed a row of blooming garden hedges, petals dancing in the wind as they cruised beneath the wide shadows of lamp-lit trees. He slowed as they reached her street, not wanting to jolt her, even though the tires hit small cracks in the sidewalk.

When her house came into view—small, well-kept, with a front porch lamp that was already glowing like a beacon—Sethos gently tapped the brakes and let the bike roll to a gentle stop near the gate.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence sit.

Then, when she started to move, he reached back and steadied the bike again.

"I’ve got it," he said quietly. "Careful."

[Y/N] climbed off, fixing her skirt instinctively before turning toward him with both hands reaching out. "The sketchbook," she reminded him softly.

"Oh, right."

He climbed off too and grabbed it from the basket, brushing his thumb along the cover before handing it over. "Just… whenever you feel like it."

She gave a small nod, clutching it gently.

Neither of them moved for a moment.

The air between them felt like it might say something before either of them could.

"…Thanks for today," she said at last. "It was… really nice."

Sethos met her eyes. There was something heavy in his chest—soft and painful all at once.

"Yeah," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It really was." He tried to lift his hand in hopes of touching her face, specifically her cheek, just to let her know how much he wanted to stay in that moment forever, but hesitated, letting it fall back to his side instead.

Then he turned, slowly wheeled the bike around, and headed off into the violet-gold dusk—while she stood by the gate, watching his silhouette stretch farther and farther away.

And in her hands, the sketchbook waited.

Unopened.

But not forgotten.

—

After a few minutes of strolling with his bike and parking it somewhere secluded, Sethos returned to the lab with his hood pulled low, the familiar scent of disinfectant and sterile air wrapping around him like a cold blanket. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, casting pale reflections on the spotless tiled floor. He made his way to the back chamber, where Dr. Baizhu awaited, busy adjusting the temperature gauge on a tray of vials. He was the regular doctor he was assigned to since he specialized in keeping abyssal energy contained and stable.

The moment Baizhu noticed Sethos approaching, he glanced up through his glasses, the faint lines on his face deepening with curiosity. "You're back earlier than expected," Baizhu remarked, pushing his sleeves up. "I assume you’re here for a new batch of serum, but first—your progress?"

Sethos froze for a moment, his fingers tightening around the strap of his tote bag. "Y-Yeah, of course," he mumbled, setting the bag down on a nearby counter. He reached in, fingers rummaging around until they brushed against the worn edges of a familiar book. He pulled it out… and immediately felt the air rush out of his lungs.

It wasn’t his notebook.

It was his sketchpad.

The dark blue cover looked nearly identical to the one he used for recording all his updates and observations—same size, same binding, nearly the same wear. But this was the wrong one. The moment he caught sight of the corner of a faint pencil outline—the gentle curve of [Y/N]’s cheek, the softness of her eyes—his heart dropped to his stomach.

Wha- No. No, no, no, no, NO!

Shit…

She had the real one. Not the sketchpad, but his notebook.

The one with serum logs, injection intervals, and diagrams of his body under abyssal energy strain. Markings that would mean nothing to most people but might raise all the wrong questions in [Y/N]'s kind, curious mind. And… pages of where he sketched a lot of aggressive and violent images, reflections of the darkness he tried to keep hidden from her.

Dark, jagged sketches—fists clenched, jaws screaming, wings torn and splattered with black. Eyes wide with terror. Shadows in cages. Him. Pinned beneath the weight of expectations. Swords stabbing through silhouettes that looked too much like himself.

He’d drawn them when the pressure got too heavy. When days blurred and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. The sketches were visceral, brutal. Sloppy in some places, frantic in others—as if the graphite itself had bitten into the page.

They weren’t for anyone else.

He could still remember a few—one of a faceless figure curled beneath a desk, dozens of hands clawing down from the ceiling; another, a warped self-portrait where his own reflection in a mirror shattered into shards with burning eyes.

It was his way of coping to keep the dark thoughts at bay, to release the pent-up emotions that threatened to consume him, that Dr. Baizhu recommended as a form of art therapy.

But…

What if she’d seen those?

What if she’d opened it?

Shit… I'm an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

His breath caught in his throat.

Baizhu finally glanced up. "Well? Where’s the notebook?"

Sethos quickly shoved the sketchbook back into the tote and snapped upright, clearing his throat. "I left it at home. I rushed out too fast…"

His eyes narrowed. "You? Forgetting the notebook you treat like a second spine?"

"It happens," he said tightly, forcing a weak shrug. "I still remember everything. I’ve got the data up here." He tapped his temple once. "You want progress reports? I’ll give you every injection time, reaction length, and the gap of when my hands stopped trembling after the last dose."

Baizhu stared at him a beat longer than he liked. Then slowly, he stepped forward, scanning him clinically.

"You’re paler," he murmured. "And the circles under your eyes are darker than last week. When was the last dose?"

"Three hours ago," he lied.

It had been six.

But that wasn’t the problem. The real problem was currently at [Y/N]’s house. In her room. Possibly already opened in her lap. And any second now, she could be flipping through pages she wasn’t supposed to see.

He swallowed hard.

"All right," Baizhu finally said, breaking the silence. He reached for a new vial of glowing green serum from the cooling unit beside him. "You know the drill."

He rolled up his sleeve automatically, but his hands were tenser than usual. His fingers flexed, restless.

The needle slid in with practiced ease. The cold spread through him like frost crackling beneath skin. But none of it distracted him the way it usually did.

All he could think of was the sound of her voice when she found it.

The shift in her expression when she read those first scientific diagrams.

The moment when whatever image of him she’d built—warm, messy Sethos who laughed too loud and teased her over anything—cracked, and something darker slipped through.

His leg bounced slightly as the serum settled.

"You’re anxious," Baizhu said quietly, without looking at him.

He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "Aren’t I always?"

But inside, he knew it wasn’t the abyss talking this time.

It was fear.

Fear of her knowing.

Fear of what she’d think once she did.

The green hue of the serum shimmered faintly in the dim light as it began to spread through the boy’s veins. Sethos clenched his jaw, tense down to every twitch of his fingers and the tautness of his shoulders.

Baizhu frowned deeply, pushing his sleeves up as he watched the circulation of abyssal energy react to Sethos’ internal state—unstable, agitated, panicked.

"Calm your nerves," Baizhu said sternly, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence. "If you don’t, the serum won’t properly bond with your body."

Sethos didn’t respond. His eyes remained locked on the floor, teeth gritted.

"I said calm down," Baizhu repeated, louder this time. "Do you want your body to reject the energy completely? If your mind stays in disarray, you won’t just lose control—you’ll become something unrecognizable. Something hideous."

That word struck him like a slap. Sethos’ fingers twitched before he finally closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale. Then exhale. Again. His limbs slowly relaxed against the restraints. He let the air return to his lungs with something closer to rhythm.

"That’s better," Baizhu murmured, observing the way the abyssal energy stabilized in Sethos’ system at the monitor before him. The glow turned from erratic sparks to a steadier, pulsing line.

The silence stretched for a while, until Sethos finally spoke, barely audible. "…Can I ask you something?"

Then, he let the words tumble out, soft at first—more like a confession than a report. "I… lied."

Baizhu raised an eyebrow, not expecting the tone of guilt that followed. After he injected the serum into Sethos' veins, he patched it up with a cotton swab to collect any excess blood before sealing the wound with a bandage. "What's on your mind?"

Sethos hesitated.

Baizhu raised an eyebrow.

"About the sketchbook," Sethos admitted, his voice low, nearly swallowed by the sterile hum of the lab. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, on the worn tile beneath his shoes, as if it might offer him an escape. "I—I gave it to someone by mistake."

The air shifted.

Baizhu went still, the injection in his hand paused mid-air. A quiet tension coiled in the room like a tightening wire.

"Who?" he asked, already bracing for the answer, his voice clipped with caution.

"…[Y/N]," Sethos muttered.

There was a pause. Long, heavy, and suffocating. The kind of silence that stretches just before a storm breaks.

"You gave a notebook that might contain fragments of abyssal activity… to your crush?" Baizhu asked, disbelief flattening his voice into a deadpan line.

Sethos groaned aloud, dragging both hands over his face, his fingers tangling briefly in his disheveled hair. "I thought it was the sketchpad I meant to give her. I didn’t realize until after everything went down."

Baizhu exhaled through his nose, long and weary, as though Sethos had just added another weight to an already full cart. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, visibly restraining the urge to throw the nearest clipboard across the room.

"You reckless idiot," he muttered at last—not with anger, but with the fatigue of a man who had seen far too many mistakes unfold exactly like this.

Still, he didn’t yell. He didn’t even raise his voice. Instead, he leaned back against the metal counter, arms folding slowly across his chest as he studied Sethos like a scientist observing a volatile reaction.

Then his eyes narrowed.

Sethos had gone quiet—too quiet. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching in erratic rhythm, and his breathing came in short, ragged bursts. A low, unfamiliar whine echoed in his throat as he stared down at his arm. The limb had begun to twist unnaturally, bulging beneath his skin as the abyssal energy flared violently, crawling like black veins up to his shoulder. Whatever control Sethos thought he had was unraveling—fast.

"Sethos," Baizhu said more sharply this time, taking a step forward.

But the boy didn’t answer. He was immersed in it—drowning in spiraling panic. His gaze was glassy and unfocused, his mouth opening slightly as if to gasp something—an apology? A warning? —but no sound came.

Baizhu reached out, intending to steady him, to pull him back to the present.

The moment his fingers brushed the corrupted skin, a sudden blast of force erupted from Sethos’ arm.

It was instant and violent.

The doctor was flung across the room, crashing into a nearby shelf with a sickening metallic clang. Medical tools clattered to the floor around him as a cloud of sterile dust exploded into the air.

Sethos stared at Baizhu’s crumpled form on the floor, the last remnants of the chaotic surge still crackling like static beneath his skin. A distant ringing filled his ears, drowning out the rest of the world in a hollow hum. The pulse of abyssal energy crawling through his veins felt erratic—unpredictable.

He took a step forward, one shaky foot dragging in a sluggish motion across the sterile tile. His hand reached out, still half-mutated—veins stark and black like ink spilled beneath the skin, tendons stretched taut against unnatural ridges. The ends of his fingers trembled, twitching like they weren’t even his.

"Doc…" he breathed, barely audible, his voice thin and hoarse.

He crouched, inching closer to the man lying groaning among the scattered tools and broken glass, but the moment he tried to steady himself, a sharp, stabbing pain erupted from his core. It started behind his sternum—like his chest was trying to cave in—then spread outward in every direction. His heart seized violently in his ribcage, as if it were caught in a vice, while something under his skin writhed, resisting the stabilizing effect of the serum.

A groan escaped him.

Then the pain worsened. His body jerked as if tugged by invisible hooks. The serum wasn’t flowing. No—worse—it was fighting back.

His knees hit the floor with a hard thud, hands splaying over the cold tiles for support. He gritted his teeth, his head pounding like drums being struck from the inside. Each beat of his heart felt wrong—too loud, too heavy, as if it dragged tar through his arteries instead of blood.

The back of his neck burned. His vision blurred.

"Shit," he hissed, forcing himself to breathe, but every inhale only deepened the agony. The serum, once cool and stabilizing, now clawed through his bloodstream like broken glass. The carefully formulated suppressant had turned volatile, no longer blending with the abyssal energy—it was colliding with it.

Sethos curled forward, gripping at his ribs, trying to suppress a cry. One of his fingers—half-blackened and streaked with fractal scars—dug into the tile, clawing it.

He reached toward Baizhu again, who had begun to stir, dazed but alive. The doctor blinked up just in time to see Sethos sway forward with glazed eyes, and panic flashed in his own.

"No—don’t move!" Baizhu rasped, forcing himself upright despite the pain, crawling over debris.

But Sethos couldn’t stop. He was trying—he was always trying—but his body was no longer his own. The mixture of panic, exposure, and energy imbalance had triggered a full internal backlash. His mutation crept further up his neck, pulsing dangerously with every throb of his heart.

Then, all at once, Sethos collapsed forward, his palms slamming the ground with a crack that echoed through the room. His vision dimmed to the shape of Baizhu’s green silhouette approaching, fingers already pulling out emergency sedatives and a stabilizer mask.

"Don’t let this be the time you break," Baizhu muttered through clenched teeth, slapping a cartridge into a pressure injector.

The device hissed against Sethos’ skin, the chemical rushing into his bloodstream with practiced precision—but something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Instead of the usual numbing cool, the serum spread like fire. It ignited beneath the surface of his skin, boiling through his veins in molten streaks. Sethos’ breath hitched. His eyes widened as an immediate pressure gripped his chest like a vise, and his spine arched involuntarily, muscles clenching so hard his limbs began to lock.

He was so consumed by his own agony that his body was rejecting the serum.

"No—no, no, no," Baizhu muttered, watching in horror as the boy began to seize.

Black lines spiderwebbed across Sethos’ neck and jaw, thick and pulsing like veins overtaken by ink. His sclera flushed with violet and green hues, then darkened entirely. His teeth clenched hard enough to crack. The once-muted corruption surged upward, unstoppable now, as if the serum hadn’t suppressed it—but provoked it.

A snarl ripped from Sethos’ throat—not human. Not anymore.

His body jolted violently, bones snapping with wet cracks beneath his skin. Something was shifting—breaking—inside him. The air grew heavier around him, like gravity itself warped to accommodate the growing presence swelling in his chest.

Baizhu took a cautious step back. His fingers trembled over his kit as he reached for another suppressant, even though he knew this wasn’t working. The formula hadn’t failed before. But now, the corruption was adapting—evolving.

Sethos’ fingertips clawed at the ground, nails growing dark, curling like talons. His face twitched, muscles spasming in waves. Half of his shoulder had transformed—gray-black, scaled, unnatural. The Abyss wasn’t just within him now.

It was becoming him.

"Sethos!" Baizhu snapped, voice sharp but laced with worry. "Listen to me! Fight it—whatever’s in your head, fight it!"

But Sethos didn’t respond. His thoughts were spiraling, fragmented between pain and voices that weren’t his.…

They clawed at the inside of his skull—feral, cold, hungry.

You were too slow.

Too weak.

Let go.

ACCEPT YOUR FATE!

SUBMIT!

SUBMIT!

ŞỮβΜƗŦ ¥ØỮŘŞ€Ł₣!

¥ØỮ ΜỮŞŦ βØŴ ĐØŴŇ ŦØ ŦĦ€ Δβ¥ŞŞ!

His vision blurred in and out—white noise between shrill static and pulsing darkness. [Y/N]’s face flickered like a memory too far away, a picture half-burned. The warmth she gave him only hours ago felt like a lie now—unreachable behind the crushing pressure splitting his head in half.

Baizhu was saying something again. Loud, frantic. But the words bled together like watercolors in a storm.

Sethos looked up.

And for a moment—just a moment—his eyes met Baizhu’s.

Recognition flickered behind the abyss-tainted irises. Pain. Guilt.

Then it was gone.

With an unnatural hiss, Sethos’ mouth opened too wide, lips stretching over fanged teeth that hadn’t been there a second ago. His body jerked upright in a lurching, twitching spasm. His fingers cracked at the knuckles—elongated, gnarled, and glistening with scaled corruption. The left side of his face warped grotesquely, eye bulging, veins crawling like worms under translucent skin.

Then—he moved.

Fast.

Baizhu barely had time to react. The monster in front of him wasn’t Sethos anymore. It was something else. Something born of pain and desperation and whatever unspeakable mutation the Abyss had left in him.

Sethos lunged.

The sound of impact wasn’t cinematic. It was wet. A meaty crack and the split of flesh and bone beneath claws.

Baizhu’s body slammed into the medical console behind him, a shocked gasp caught in his throat as he looked down—blood already blooming in red-black blossoms across his coat. He tried to speak, maybe to plead, but Sethos was already on him.

He didn’t mean to.

But intent didn’t matter anymore.

The half-corrupted boy let out a distorted shriek—animalistic and garbled, his voice layered with something else, something wrong—and then he ripped.

Tendons snapped. A spurt of blood hit the stainless-steel counter. Baizhu’s torso collapsed sideways from his waist as he was dragged to the floor, severed nearly in half.

And just like that—the only man who had kept Sethos human for this long… was gone.

And so was the golden boy himself…

Cracked.

Possibly beyond repair.

—

Her eyes rested heavily on the "sketchpad" in her lap, her heart racing with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Will this be the key to help her understand her best friend's feelings in a more profound way? She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she might uncover within its pages, and her hand carefully lifted the cover.

The room was quiet and still, the sounds of crickets chirping outside the only noise breaking the silence. There sat the young girl in her bed, now completely refreshed with her clothes changed into a more comfortable attire, and she had done her skincare routine before anything else. Now, the notebook—unassuming, yet heavy with secrets—rested in [Y/N]’s hands. This was the "sketchpad" Sethos had given to her, where portraits of herself were secured in its pages, along with cryptic messages that only she could decipher.

"If you ever doubted how I feel about you… just look through that. It’s all there."

But the pages whispered something else. Something urgent.

Her fingers trembled as she opened it, the spine creaking softly—a sound like the first crack of ice underfoot. Her eyes widened in shock, her mouth parted in silent horror.

The ink was neat, clinical, and meticulous. Logs of symptoms. Notes of worsening tremors. Descriptions of strange, persistent sensations crawling beneath skin and bone. Details so raw, so personal, they sliced through the quiet room.

Her breath caught and faltered.

She read of the faint tremors in Sethos’s hand, the unexplained bruises that faded too slowly, and the nightmares that stole his rest. Then came the part about the venom—rifthound venom—still lingering in his blood, the remnant of a wound far deeper than she ever knew. An "abyssal energy" is what the healers referred to this lingering poison as.

…This "abyssal energy" Sethos had carried in him.

Could it be related to the incident?

Images crashed in her mind like a thunderstorm.

The stadium incident: roaring crowds crushed beneath the thunder of chaos, the flash of flashing emergency lights, the low growls of rifthounds, eyes gleaming with malice. The memory of Sethos, moving between her and the monsters, his body a shield of raw determination and pain. The moment his strength had nearly given out.

Her heart hammered, chest tightening painfully as she tried to call for help with such desperation in her aching screams, while she held her injured best friend in her arms as the abyss seeped through his wounds unknowingly.

[Y/N] bit her trembling lip, her grip tightened on the cover of the notebook. Tears threatened to spill, but she blinked them back, swallowing the thick knot of dread in her throat as she turned another page. She needed to know more—needed answers, even if they left her reeling.

The next few entries were more erratic, the handwriting slightly unsteady, as if written in haste or pain.

Entry 14. Third injection this week. Hands are steady for now, but the pressure behind my eyes is getting worse. I can feel it breathing beneath my skin. Like something waiting to take over. I don’t know how long I can keep this from her.

Entry 17. I saw her smile today, and God, I was lucky enough to receive a hug from her when she visited me. It made the ache quiet for a while.

Entry 18. The fever spiked last night. I woke up covered in sweat, and the veins on my left arm glowed for thirty-six seconds. Baizhu says that’s longer than before. I’m tired. But I can't let them see me weak.

[Y/N] inhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling with every word she absorbed. She could almost hear Sethos’s voice in those lines—flat, controlled, trying so hard not to sound scared. But beneath that control, she could feel the dread humming between each sentence.

Her thumb brushed over one page with a sketch of something eerie and dark—a half-human silhouette surrounded by wild scribbles and spirals, like something unrecognizable had tried to emerge through him.

Her heart dropped.

Entry 22. I had a nightmare where I turned into one of them. Rifthounds. I tore through people. I think I was awake. I don’t know anymore.

Her skin prickled. The room suddenly felt colder.

Was that what Sethos had been trying to prevent? Some kind of… transformation? Her fingers hovered over a corner of a page, hesitant, but she turned it anyway, breath shallow.

The next entry was accompanied by another drawing—this time, of her.

[Y/N] sat on a park bench in the sketch, light blooming behind her like a halo. Sethos had drawn her with such softness, such reverence, it nearly undid her.

Entry 25. If I lose this fight… if I lose myself… I hope she never sees me like that. I’d rather disappear first. She deserves better than a ticking bomb trying to act human.

She choked on a quiet gasp and covered her mouth. The tears finally spilled, silent and hot against her cheeks. Her vision blurred, but she kept reading.

Entry 26. I want to tell her the truth. Every time I get close, I remember the way she looks at me when she’s happy. I don’t want that look to vanish into fear. Not because of me.

Her shoulders trembled.

This whole time, he had been smiling, laughing, and sitting beside her like nothing was wrong. Loving her like it's the most natural thing for him despite his struggles. He was the optimistic one in the room, even when he was slowly breaking himself. And she had never noticed the weight he was carrying—had never thought to ask why he always seemed a little more tired, why his hands would sometimes shake before he buried them in his pockets.

"Idiot," she whispered through a breathless sob, more to herself than to him. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

But even as she asked, she knew why.

He hadn’t wanted her to worry. He hadn’t wanted her to look at him differently. He hadn’t wanted her to feel obligated to stay by his side.

She closed the notebook slowly, the leather cover soft beneath her trembling palms. Her heart was thundering, torn between grief, fear, and something more difficult to name—something like guilt.

She wiped her tears roughly with her sleeve, staring blankly at the cover now resting in her lap.

What did she do now?

God, if only she had an answer for that.

Her trembling fingers lingered on the closed cover, as if she held it just a little tighter, it would stop the storm from clawing at her insides. But nothing did. Her chest tightened further, suffocating beneath the weight of revelation. The silence of the room no longer felt peaceful—it felt like it was mocking her, like even the moon outside refused to witness her shatter.

Her shoulders slumped forward. The notebook slipped from her lap and thudded softly against the blanket, forgotten for a moment as her arms slowly wrapped around herself in a futile attempt at comfort. Her knees pulled closer to her chest.

And then she broke.

Her sobs came quietly at first—small, choked hiccups of disbelief and grief—but they grew, crumbling the dam she hadn’t realized she’d been holding all night. Her tears flowed freely, streaking hot down her cheeks, burning with guilt and helplessness. Her breaths were uneven, shallow, as if the very act of existing under the truth she had just learned was too much to bear.

"Why didn’t you tell me…" she whispered again, her voice cracking around the edges. "Why did you do this alone…?"

She felt useless. So utterly, painfully useless.

He had protected her. Shielded her. Fought for her. Bled for her.

And what had she done?

Laughed with him. Teased him. Hugged him. Watched him smile and believed it.

She hadn't seen the trembling hands. The lingering pain. The exhaustion behind his bright eyes. The sketchbook that should have been a confession of love had instead unraveled into a confession of torment. One he hadn’t meant for her to see. One that had gone unspoken far too long.

She buried her face in her hands, curling inward, the soft fabric of her sleeves dampening the sound of her weeping. The ache in her chest only deepened, a growing pit of uncertainty gnawing at her heart.

Would he die?

Was he turning into something else?

Was it already too late?

Those questions clanged in her skull like bells rung out of sync, never giving her time to breathe in between. Panic laced itself through the grief, sharp and suffocating. Her mind spiraled with imagined horrors—visions of Sethos in pain, alone, consumed by something dark and terrible while she stood clueless beside him.

And he had still smiled at her.

Still loved her.

"God, Sethos…" she choked out, gripping the blanket, knuckles white.

The worst part wasn't the fear. It wasn’t even the guilt. It was the helplessness—the awful, paralyzing helplessness that left her here, curled in bed, with nothing but a notebook and a hundred impossible questions.

And no way to take any of it back.

—

The city stretched beneath him in a quilt of flickering lights and half-sleeping silence.

Kinich soared between rooftops with ease, his green, pixelated hook whistling through the air before latching onto the edge of a building across the street. The momentum pulled him forward, wind slicing against his masked face, his black-and-green suit clinging close to every shift of muscle. It had taken years to master the rhythm of this—the constant movement, the quiet shadows, the balance of power and restraint.

He landed in a crouch on a rooftop ledge, boots skimming gravel. The glow of his detector buzzed faintly on his wrist—no major threats. Not yet.

He took a moment, breath steady behind the voice-filtering mask, and let his eyes wander over the cityscape. Everything looked peaceful from up here. Distant, manageable.

But his thoughts weren’t.

It had been hours since he spotted them—Sethos and [Y/N]—back at the park. A small, warm scene nestled in the late afternoon sun, their laughter carried in the wind just faintly enough for him to hear.

He hadn’t expected them to be there.

Especially not together.

The memory stirred something inside him—an ache, low and persistent, like a splinter under skin. The way [Y/N] had beamed at him… no, at the Green Ghost. When she pulled out her phone, eyes bright, hopeful, asking for a selfie like he was some kind of comic book hero instead of her longtime friend hiding behind a mask… he’d felt it then.

That pull.

That quiet longing.

He hadn’t even said anything. Just nodded. Because how could he say no to her?

And yet, it wasn’t real. Not fully. She didn’t know it was him. She looked at him and saw someone else. Someone cooler, braver, better.

His stomach twisted.

Then there was Sethos.

Kinich hadn’t missed it—the sharpness in Sethos’ eyes when he approached. The tight set of his jaw. That expression that didn’t quite match the easy, golden-retriever energy Sethos always seemed to wear around [Y/N]. No, this was different. It was… guarded. Hostile.

He doesn’t know either, Kinich reminded himself. He has no idea it’s me.

But still… it burned.

Not the hostility. Not even the protectiveness. What got under Kinich’s skin was why it was there.

Sethos wasn’t just suspicious of the Green Ghost—he didn’t seem to like him.

And that was enough to make Kinich’s grip on the ledge tighten.

He didn’t want to be bothered by it. But how could he not, when the two people who mattered the most to him stood side by side earlier, unaware they’d been in the presence of someone they’d known for years? Someone who carried their secrets like burdens and his own like chains.

With a tired sigh, Kinich activated his detector again, more out of habit than concern. The pixelated green glow washed faintly over his palm as the device scanned the immediate vicinity. For a moment, there was nothing but the low static hum of ambient energy, the kind that clung to cities like lingering fog. He watched the screen, eyes unfocused, already half-thinking about the rooftops he’d swing over to get home.

Just a few more minutes. One last check.

He hovered his thumb over the dial to power the detector off—ready to call it a night.

But then it beeped.

Sharp and erratic.

A rapid chirping burst that hadn’t echoed all evening.

His body stilled.

ABYSSAL ACTIVITY DETECTED. LOCATION: SECTOR 4 - INDUSTRIAL BLOCK. STATUS: ACTIVE. POTENTIAL BREACH.

He snapped his gaze to the screen.

A blinking crimson marker lit up across the grid—a pulse of concentrated disturbance glowing sickly on the map. And beneath it, the text appeared in jagged lettering:

His stomach dropped.

Another abyssal attack?

At night?

He launched his hook skyward, zipping across the skyline with long, calculated swings, the sharp snap of each grapple echoing against steel and glass. He followed the detector’s lead as it tugged him through the city like a tether, every leap guided by the growing, sour taste in his mouth—the taste of something wrong.

That wasn’t normal. The abyssal outbreaks had been dealt with swiftly in the past thanks to his vigilance; there weren't even signs of the abyss returning to harm mankind again.Shit…

Kinich didn’t waste a second.

The closer he got to the industrial block, the worse it felt.

The air thickened.

The skyline dipped into shadows, the kind that didn’t quite belong to natural night.

Finally, the tracker guided him to a squat concrete building near the end of a dead road—half-swallowed by a chain-link fence and overgrown brush. The signage was rusted, but he didn’t need to read it to know:

The lab.

His boots landed with a soft crunch on gravel, and immediately, Kinich felt it.

The aura.

The pressure in the air—it was thick, cloying, and rotten with abyssal residue. Like a scentless decay that clung to the back of the throat. He stood still for a heartbeat, masked eyes narrowed behind the visor, listening.

No movement.

He crept forward.

The metal side door was dented inward, its hinges curled like peeled fruit. He pushed it open, stepping into a hallway dimly lit by flickering emergency bulbs. The usual sterile hum of the lab was gone—replaced by the unsettling buzz of short-circuiting wires and the occasional drip… drip of something wet.

Kinich stepped lightly over shattered glass. His breath slowed.

The place was a war zone.

Cabinets overturned. Metal carts crushed. Scorch marks licked across the tiled floor and up the walls. Equipment bent out of shape, some with fresh claw gouges still smoking at the edges.

He turned the corner into the central chamber—and froze.

Then he smelled it.

Blood.

His chest tightened.

There, slumped against the far counter, was what remained of someone.

A man’s body—or what was left of it.

Blood pooled wide beneath him, dark and gleaming. Limbs twisted unnaturally, torso torn open with horrifying precision. Parts of him were burned, others shredded. One arm was missing entirely.

Kinich took a shaky step forward, swallowing bile.

The man’s face was half-lit by a cracked overhead lamp.

A man possibly in his mid-30s. His glasses were shattered beside him, his lab coat soaked crimson and clinging to torn skin.

Now… lifeless.

Mangled.

…Could it be rifthounds? They are the only ones capable of inflicting this level of carnage.

Slaughtered.

Kinich’s breath caught in his throat. He turned sharply, scanning the destruction again with new eyes.

He knelt slowly beside the body, shaking hands hovering above the gore-streaked floor. He dared not touch anything—not yet.

His mind raced.

Fuck, what the hell happened here?

Kinich’s thoughts clawed for answers, but the question felt too large—too loud—in the silence of the ruined lab. His pulse thundered beneath his mask as he rose slowly to his feet, the grotesque sight of someone's torn body burned into the back of his mind.

Then—

Distant shouting.

"Get backup!"

"There’s a breach in Sector 4!"

"The lab—someone’s in the lab!"

The crackling voices of security forces—or worse, police—echoed from down the industrial block, their boots pounding against metal grates and concrete. Radios barked behind them, and the screech of tires hinted at approaching vehicles.

Kinich’s heart jolted.

Shit.

He couldn’t be seen here.

Not like this.

Not crouched beside a mangled corpse in the middle of a facility pulsing with abyssal energy.

Even if he tried to explain, what would he say?

That he was just patrolling? That he just happened to drop by after a massacre occurred? That he just found a lifeless body like this?

No. No one would believe him.

Not while wearing a mask.

Not while shrouded in mystery.

He spun on his heel and bolted down the corridor. With fluid precision, he shot his green hook up to a steel beam and launched himself upward, breaking through a shattered skylight with a burst of glass and pixelated light.

The cool air of the night hit him like a slap, but he didn’t stop.

From the rooftops, he looked back only once—just long enough to see the blue-red flash of police lights flood the street, casting the lab in flickering hues of urgency and sirens. The shrill whoop-whoop of alarm grew louder as more units converged.

Too late.

Kinich clenched his jaw, twisting mid-air as he redirected his path.

His detector was still active, the signal blinking erratically like a heartbeat gone wild. The abyssal energy hadn’t faded. It was moving.

Something’s still out there.

His masked eyes narrowed, the gravity of what this meant weighing heavy in his chest.

Someone—or something—was on the move.

And the trail wasn’t cold yet.

Kinich snapped his hook toward the next rooftop and flung himself forward again, faster this time. Each swing brought him deeper into the shadows of the city, chasing the trail the world didn’t even know was bleeding yet.

The hunt had begun.

IV. ABOUT THE OTHERS

"Word spreads faster than the wind about my commitment to my partner. I cannot say which subordinate thought it wise to fan such flames of gossip, though their behavior has grown... curious of late. Hah, it was only a matter of time before the news made its rounds. I cannot say I resent the attention, but in my position, one must tread carefully. Not all ears listen with goodwill."

V. FLINS' TROUBLES

"There is one matter that weighs heavily on me… Rerir—one of the Five Sinners. Once, he took my likeness as his own, twisting my image for his schemes. Should he attempt such a deception again, I fear that my partner may be the one most at risk. They place their trust in me so readily… and that very trust could be turned into a weapon against them. Hmph. Until the day that threat is ended, I must remain ever watchful."

VI. NICKNAMES

"Haha, you should see the look on their face whenever I call them by one of my little nicknames. Sometimes I say 'Starlight,' for they brighten my path when all else is dark. Other times... 'Anchor,' for they keep me steady when storms rise within. They pretend to scold me for such sentimentality, but I can tell—they cherish it, just as I do."

VII. ABOUT HIS WORK

"Ah, yes… there was one evening when my partner insisted on accompanying me to the Final Night Cemetery. They said they wished to understand the life of a lightkeeper, to see the solemn beauty of my work firsthand. Brave words, but the moment the atmosphere had settled into that eerie stillness, their grip on my sleeve tightened, and before long, they were pleading to turn back to Nasha Town. Heh, I could hardly refuse them. Duty may bind me to the cemetery, but their comfort will always outweigh the ghosts I tend to."

VIII. JEALOUSY

"Hmph… Traveler, I must admit—your easy camaraderie with my partner unsettles me at times. You speak, they laugh, and I cannot help but feel a pang of envy coil in my chest. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I know their heart belongs to me, yet even so… my own heart can be frightfully possessive. Still, I suppose I should be grateful—they seem at ease in your company. Just… do not forget whose side they return to when all is said and done."

IX. ABOUT FLINS: FAE

"When they learned I was not human, but fae… I feared the worst. Rejection, distrust, perhaps even fear in their eyes. Yet, when the truth settled between us, they only smiled—softly, as if nothing had changed at all. Even eagerly requested that I teach them the language of a fae. Hah… I cannot describe the weight that lifted from me in that moment. To be seen for what I truly am and still be embraced… There is no greater mercy than acceptance from the one you hold dear."

X. ABOUT FLINS: ROYAL TREATMENT

"They insist I treat them as though they were anyone else—normal, as they shyly put it. Yet how could I? Every gesture, every gift I offer, is but a fraction of what they deserve. If bringing them rare trinkets, pulling out chairs, or draping a cloak over their shoulders makes them blush… then so be it. Hahaha, perhaps I overindulge, but to me, they are nothing short of royalty. And royalty should never want for care."

III. UNFAIR BIAS

"Some have complained that I’m unfair when it comes to bargaining prices. They say I lower my rates too easily whenever it involves my partner. Hah. And? Let them talk. Why should I haggle with the one person whose happiness matters more than coin or custom? If that makes me biased, then so be it. I’ll take their complaints over seeing my partner want for anything."

IV. CHAT: TEASINGLY ANNOYING

Ajaw: "Heeey, Kinich~! Don’t tell me you’re running off to see them again. Hah! You’re like a puppy that follows their every step—do you even know how ridiculous you look?" Kinich: "…Say what you like. Your words don’t change anything. At the end of the day, they’re still mine—and no amount of barking from you will change that." Ajaw: "Tch—! H-hey, I wasn’t barking! You—ugh, forget it!"

V. CHAT: YOUR ABSENCE

"Hm… strange. I used to think silence was my only comfort. Yet now, even in the quiet, I catch myself listening for their voice… Tch. They’ve changed me more than I’d like to admit."

VI. SEEKING ADVICE

"I’m not the type to ask for guidance, but lately… I’ve found myself doing just that. Mualani told me to be more vocal with affection—though she phrased it like I was some unfeeling rock. Chasca suggested gifts, though knowing her, she meant something extravagant. And Mavuika… well, her advice was to burn brighter, to let my passion show. Hmph. I suppose everyone has their own way of saying the same thing. Not that I’ll admit to them they were… helpful."

VII. JEALOUSY

"Traveler, you may have noticed—I don’t mind when others speak to my partner, laugh with them, or even linger a little too long in conversation. Hm? Why? Because I know, without question, where their heart rests. Still… there are limits. A smile, a word, I can tolerate. But should anyone forget their place and reach beyond what is theirs to take—well… let’s just say I would be quick to remind them. Passivity does not mean indifference."

VIII. PROTECTIVENESS

"Hmm… Two thieves, one carrying a rusty blade, the other carrying a crossbow. He's misaligning his shot at the target, the target in question being my partner, at that. Amateurs… I'll make this quick and unpleasant for them."

IX. SHOWING AFFECTION

"Isn't being present with your partner sufficient? …What? It's not enough to prove you love them? Then what do you suggest, Traveler? Show them physical touch? I'm not exactly a 'touchy' person as they are, but I suppose a gentle embrace or a kiss on the forehead wouldn't hurt. Words of affirmation… Hmm, I've often praised them; surely they know how much I appreciate them. Not that too? I have to say… 'I love you' to them, even when it's not something I'm used to? Fine, if it's necessary to make them feel loved, I'll give it a try. But don't expect me to do it all the time."

X. TRYING OUT NEW DESTINATIONS

"After the war, every citizen of Natlan is free from the shackles of the Wayob and allowed to explore a world so different from ours. My partner was excited to explore each nation, already packing up before I could even retort, but I simply told them to pick just one destination for now. They want to visit Fontaine first, since they heard that the citizens there wore elegant clothing and had a passion for the arts. Of course, I don't have the heart to refuse their interests…"

Hm, the grandmaster wasn't incorrect in his observations. He had been consistent in his streak of recklessness and impulsiveness, always seeking out danger and excitement without much regard for consequences, causing everyone a headache at one point or another.

Now he's extending that migraine to the grandmaster for having the audacity to ask for his blessing on marrying his adoptive daughter.

Though he sensed more words lingering on the tip of Varka's tongue, he patiently allowed himself to be quiet and listen for a moment.

"However," the older man lifted his finger as an emphasis of the gravity of his next words, "you will not marry her," he said firmly, sizing up his fatherly glare to the boy's nonchalance.

Lohen cocked his head to the side, as if he didn't understand why the grandmaster would deny his heartfelt request. With a frown, he replied. "Why not? I'm more capable of protecting your daughter from harm than anyone else."

Varka stammered for a bit, attempting to make logic of his concerns before finally speaking. He sighed heavily, running a rough hand over his stressed face before answering, "Again, I don't doubt your capability of protecting her."

Lohen continued to press on the matter, his body slightly leaning over curiously. "Then what is the issue?"

Varka didn't respond right away, bringing out his emergency flat metal container of booze from the pockets of his jeans, uncapping the circular lid, and then replying. His eyes gently cast down at the awaiting drink. "[Y/N] is still trying to figure out what to do with her life."

He paused, taking a quick sip of the alcohol, and then continued with a sigh. "She just turned into a lovely young woman and has stuff that she is passionate about, sure. But I don't want to interfere with her path by just accepting," he motioned with his hand toward Lohen. "Your blessing without her input."

He took another sip before looking back up at the latter. "And of course, as her father, I don't just casually let suitors into her life without giving them a quick clash to prove their worth." He chuckled lightly, shaking the half-emptied container in his hand. "My daughter deserves a man who is willing to work for her love and respect, not just someone who expects it to be handed to him on a silver platter."

Though his eyes had little warmth beneath them, only a fair warning.

"Is that all clear?" Varka said with a sense of finality.

Lohen was silent. Remarkably rare for him, as he usually had a quick response ready. Though his silence should not be mistaken as an agreement to the wise words of the grandmaster, it was more likely a sign of defiance or just plain ignorance. "Then could you relay the message to [Y/N]?" he requested.

Varka deadpanned. "Are you even listening to me, kid?"

"Oh, I did," Lohen replied, nodding his head. "If you wish to know how serious I am about your daughter, then let's settle it with a duel." In the blink of an eye, blue swirls of energy enveloped Lohen's hands as he materialized a polearm that gleamed in the sunlight, ignoring a certain red-headed individual's annoyed protest of, "If you're gonna bring bloodshed, at least get out of the tavern."

The casualness had eventually transformed into that signature maniacal grin and bloodthirsty glint in his dull red eyes that Varka had seen too many times before.

At this point, Varka would rather assume that Lohen wanted an excuse to fight him under the guise of proving his commitment to his daughter.

Kids these days…

"You are really going to extreme lengths just to prove a point," Varka remarked, pinching his nose in disbelief. "But if that's what it takes for you to show your dedication, then so be it."

He rested his hand on the back of his chair, pushing himself up to stand, and cracking the joints in his neck as he did so. "What are you two doing?"

Both men froze at the familiar owner of that sweet voice.

There you stood at the entrance of the tavern, your hand positioned on the wooden door frame, a look of curiosity and concern etched on your face. You took the opportunity to use the silence as an edge to assess the situation unfolding before you, wondering why the hell they are trying to cause a ruckus as an invitation to be permanently banned by the tavern in the middle of the night.

You looked first at your sheepish father, scratching his blond hair in awkwardness, and then at the Lohen who was still equipped with his weapon, as if ready for a fight or really ready for a fight.

His battle-hungry expression schooled back into one of casual indifference as he caught your eye, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Good evening, my lady," he said with a slight bow, his tone laced with practiced charm. "We were just having a little chat with your father here." He motioned with his head to the old man who's currently giving him a look, though the gesture was disregarded purposefully, and then Varka turned his attention to you, clearing his throat.

"So… Uh, how's the progress of your collaborated research with Albedo, sweet pea?" he asked, forcing a poor attempt at a smile, sitting back on the stool as he tried to hide the awkwardness that flickered in his eyes.

At the mention of the affectionate nickname from a long, long ago, your face scrunched up in disgust. It had been quite some time since he had addressed you with that endearing term, and using that specifically now felt like a deliberate attempt to divert your attention from the bigger picture.

"What is going on here, Dad?" you replied, arching a distrustful eyebrow.

Silence followed after your question, the tension in the room palpable as you waited for his response. Finally, it was not your father who cracked the stillness, but rather the part-time bartender himself, Diluc.

"This gentleman," Diluc said, setting his gaze at Lohen while keeping his hands busy cleaning the same glass over and over again, "has asked for your father's blessing to propose to you." Then he shifted his bored gaze back to your unusually quiet father, a hint of amusement betraying his expression despite the border of professionalism he maintained.

He can already tell the simmering betrayal emitting from Varka, judging by how tensed his jawline is and how his grip on the container tightens.

"Pro…proposal?" you stammered, your face burning from feeling caught off guard by the mention of an unexpected proposal.

Diluc nodded in confirmation, a small smirk playing on his lips as he observed your flustered reaction. "I'll leave the rest of the details to them," he said, gesturing towards your father and Lohen. He placed the glassware on an open upper cabinet, mouthing to you, "Good luck," before excusing himself from the situation to avoid getting tangled further in the delicate family matters.

Now, it was just the three of you, and maaaaybeeee, a knowing audience secretly watching the drama unfold from a discreet distance.

Your father chugged down the remaining booze from the container, swiping off the dripping juice from his chin with the back of his hand and sighing heavily. "As Diluc stated, yes, he was trying to get my blessing to marry you."

He tightened the lid of the container and set it back on the counter, his expression unreadable. "And I refused his request."

"YOU REFUSED HIS REQUEST?!"

The sheer volume of your bewildered voice jolted your father, causing him to flinch slightly. Even Lohen was stunned, but slightly touched by your shaky reaction.

He returned the bewildered stare, his eyebrows knitting together as if he weren't expecting the intensity of your reaction. "Hey, keep it down, will you?" he muttered, glancing around to see some of the drunkard fools furthering indulging themselves with the drama until they wisely looked away after catching his warning-like glare.

"I refused to give him my blessing until you give me your permission to marry you,"

He scowled. "But I doubt you would agree; you're doing fine on your own without boys trying to flock over you—"

"Then I want to marry him!"

"Huh?"

"Please let me marry him, Dad!"

Lohen looked back and forth at the father-daughter interaction with profound intrigue, his heart swelling with a mix of emotions.

Well, this is certainly unexpected, he thought to himself. But he wasn't complaining either.

You pressed forward before courage could desert you again.

"I've… I've liked him for a long time, Dad." Your voice cracked on the admission, with your cheeks scorching hot. "Months? I don't know, maybe longer?" You scratched your head in frustration, running your hand over your disheveled hair.

"It just is, okay! I know he throws himself into every fight like it's the only thing that makes him alive… but he still finds a way to check if I'm okay first, even when he always comes back bruised. " You swallowed hard, eyes now fixed somewhere near Lohen's boots because looking at either man right now felt impossible.

"I keep waiting for the right moment to say something, but every time I tried, my tongue kept getting stuck… I was too shy to confess."

Silence stretched thin and fragile.

Then the said man exhaled; that might have been relief dressed up as a scoff. The blue energy coiling up around his polearm flickered once and dissolved; the weapon vanished into motes of light as though it had never been summoned. His posture loosened, his shoulder dropping the battle-ready tension he'd worn like armor.

He turned toward Varka, lips curling into that familiar, infuriatingly smug smirk.

"See?" Lohen drawled, spreading his hands in mock innocence. "No need for bloodshed after all. Your daughter just gave her permission herself." The red glint in his eyes sparked with self-satisfaction, then softened a fraction when his gaze slid back to you. He confidently approached you, his hand taking yours, and kissed it gently. "You save a lot of trouble for us, my lady."

You blushed at the unexpected praise, unable to contain your wobbly smile.

Meanwhile, Varka dragged a hand down his face, muttering something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience to Barbatos. After a long beat, he finally looked between the two of you, expression caught somewhere between resignation and reluctant fondness.

The consequences of being a parent to a daughter, he guessed. He's more flexible when it comes to letting you get away with things than he'd like to admit, but he couldn't deny the pleasure it brought him just to see you happy.

"…Fine," he grunted, his voice rough.

He fixed Lohen again with a glare. "But if you make her cry even once, kid. I won't need a duel. I'll just bury you under Stormterror's Lair and tell everyone you got lost on a routine patrol."

Lohen's grin widened, unfazed by the protective-fatherly threat. "Noted."

Varka groaned. "I need another drink for this. You two are going to be the death of me."

Then his gaze drifted to your intertwined hands and grumbled. "Save the PDA for when you're married, please. You two are not allowed to hold hands in public until then."

"Daaaaddddd!" you whined, sending him a half-hearted glare.

Lohen brushed off his feeble warning with a chuckle. "We'll be sure to keep our hands to ourselves until the big day, Grandmaster."

"Though I wished to know now what my fiancée's preferences are for her engagement ring." Surprise flickered in your eyes as you glanced at Lohen, who was already gazing back at you with tenderness. "Shall we browse together tomorrow?"

You would be a fool to refuse such a thoughtful gesture from him.

IV. ABOUT THE OTHERS

"Hmm? How did the others react to my relationship with them? Bahahaha! Oh, they didn't believe me at first; they thought I manipulated them or something. Yeah, the other knights made up these bizarre rumors about us, like when I probably threatened them with a dagger to their neck to make them date me. Can you believe that? I'm crazy, but I'm not that crazy... probably. Anyway, eventually they saw how happy we were together and accepted it. Some of them even apologized for doubting us. Whatever, it's one thing to doubt, but it's another thing to spread false rumors. It's all water under the bridge now, though. But I regret not teaching those fools a very thorough, valuable lesson because I would rather not anger my lover."

V. LOHEN'S TROUBLES

"Ugh… Being a big target for so many bastards across Teyvat is such a pain in the ass. The Fatui, Abyss scum, rival knights, and even some of the nobles in Mondstadt probably want me dead. I could deal with all that shit easily. But what really pisses me off is knowing they might try to use them to get to me. One wrong move and some coward thinks they can grab them just to make me vulnerable… Hah. The mere thought makes my blood boil. If anyone even dares to lay a finger on them as leverage against me, I’ll turn their entire bloodline into a cautionary tale. I’ll slaughter anything that tries to use them… but damn, it’s annoying that they even have the option."

VI. COMBAT: LOW HP

"Heh… is this all you’ve got? Pathetic. I can’t die yet—Fuck! I still need to go home to them. Don’t you dare make me break my promise to them…!"

VII. JEALOUSY

"Saaayyy, Honorary Knight. Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you pretty cozy with my lover recently… They're awfully adorable, hmm? Bet you want to hug them, hold their hand, maybe even steal them away from me? Ahahaha! …If you ever try it, I'll carve out those wandering eyes of yours and make you watch as I string your guts into a pretty little necklace for them. Okay? Hehehe... Just kidding! Or am I? You'll understand, right, Honorary Knight?"

VIII. DEMANDING RESPECT

"I thought it'd be a fun exercise to teach my fellow knights some basic respect and manners, especially when around my lover. Whatever my lover wants, they get. Anyone whining their asses off about it can take it up with me personally. I'll give them something to cry about, that's for sure."

IX. OBEDIENCE

"What is that look on your face? You want me to deliver this paperwork to Varka? Pshhh, do it yourself… Wait, my lover actually asked you to relay the message to me? Well, in that case, hand over the documents. Ah, ah, ah! I really insist."

X. ENCOURAGING VIOLENCE

"You'd be surprised that my lover encourages me to do whatever I want. It's probably because they know that I'll do it anyway, but the fact that they actually tell me to go wild as long as I come home safe? Hahaha! Fuck, that’s hot. They really are perfect for me. Because of their encouragement, I’ll slaughter entire camps of hilichurls, paint the snow red in Dragonspine, or carve my way through a Fatui ambush, whatever feels good. Honestly, their blessing makes the violence feel like foreplay, just saying."

now, with everything finally done, the dorm smelled faintly of soap and fabric softener. you were tucked into bed, movie flickering softly on the laptop, zoro half-asleep against you. one arm firmly around your waist, head buried against your chest, his breathing slow and steady—the kind of quiet that makes even your heartbeat feel too loud.

then—thump. loud, sharp. shattering your perfectly built peace.

you sighed, pushing zoro’s arm away, dragging the blanket off, and stomping to the door. you didn’t even think—you just opened it, already mid-glare.

a guy stood there holding a football, grin too smooth to be real. his friend beside him had a phone out, recording.

“uh, are you ladies alright?” he asked, voice dripping with fake charm. you could tell he had practiced this smooth tone for a while, but still failed.

you crossed your arms. didn’t even bother answering—just stared, unimpressed. from head to toe.

then zoro appeared behind you, shirtless, hair messy, eyes dark and sharp like a blade. the air seemed to drop a few degrees.

“uh—hey man, i didn’t mean to disturb. it’s just a trend,” the guy stuttered, taking a step back.

“a trend,” zoro said flatly, voice low, “that nearly broke the door?”

“we were just having fun—”

“take your fun somewhere else before i shove that ball so far in your ass you’ll taste it,” he cut in, tone calm but deadly.

the two boys froze, mumbled a terrified “sorry,” and bolted down the hall.

zoro slammed the door shut, muttering something under his breath before scooping you up and tossing you back on the bed.

“the fuck those idiots think they are,” he grumbled, burying his face in your chest again and unpausing the movie like nothing happened.

you blinked, then started laughing—that low, amused kind that only made him hum sleepily against you. zoro really did hate when people disturbed his naps. especially with you.

and of course, the video went viral on campus—captioned: “just wanted to make a trend, ended up receiving a death threat.”

comments:

— user girl opened that door like she was about to tax their souls 😭

— user her face alone said “you picked the wrong dorm today.”

— user zoro coming out looking like the final boss 💀💀💀

— user next trend idea: letting the mosshead shove that ball

— user not her man appearing half-naked like a summoned demon of rage 😭🔥

— user zoro and his girl waking up and choosing violence every day man

TRAFALGAR D. WATER LAW

you’d been buried in books for hours. papers scattered everywhere, notes highlighted to death, coffee cup long empty. you were so deep into your studying you barely noticed law leaning against the doorway, quietly watching you like he was calculating how much longer you could last before passing out.

“you haven’t moved in three hours,” he finally said, voice low.

“i’m fine,” you muttered, eyes glued to your notes.

he didn’t answer—just walked over, plucked the pen from your hand, and shut the book. “no, you’re not.”

you gave him a weak glare, but before you could argue, he was already guiding you up from the chair. one hand at your back, the other tugging the blanket from the couch. it wasn’t even a discussion—just law doing what law does best: deciding for you when you wouldn’t take care of yourself.

“lie down. i’ll bring you water,” he said, tone final.

you sighed, but didn’t fight it. within minutes, you were half buried under the blanket, head resting on his thigh as he absentmindedly rubbed circles along your arm while scrolling through his phone.

the peace didn’t last long. a thump at the door made you flinch and law’s hand immediately paused.

he stood up without a word, expression unreadable, and opened the door just enough to see two guys—one holding a football, the other holding a phone.

“yo, sorry—wrong dorm, i think,” one of them said with that nervous laugh people use when they know they’re about to get in trouble.

law tilted his head slightly, eyes cool. “you think?”

the boy blinked. “we were just doing a trend, man—”

law’s tone didn’t rise, but the silence between each word cut sharper than a yell. “so your ‘trend’ is disturbing people trying to rest?”

the boy laughed again—weak, forced—until law’s gaze darkened a shade.

“take your ball,” he said, voice like ice, “and your friend. before i show you what a real disappearance looks like.”

they were gone before he even shut the door.

law exhaled quietly, locking it, then returned to you like nothing happened. you were still blinking up at him, half shocked, half impressed.

“they’re gone,” he murmured, sitting back down and brushing his thumb over your temple. “now, where were we? ah. you—resting.”

you couldn’t help a tiny laugh. “you didn’t have to threaten them.”

“i didn’t,” he replied simply, eyes flicking back to his phone. “i just explained the options.”

and of course, the video made its way online. captioned: “just wanted to make a trend… accidentally met the grim reaper.”

comments:

— user bro didn’t even raise his voice and i STILL got scared 😭

— user that “you think?” felt like a death sentence

— user i’d drop out if law ever looked at me like that 😭😭

— user why does he sound like he’s about to perform an autopsy instead of arguing 💀

— user her just standing there in the back all tired and pretty while he handles it 😭💞

PORTGAS D. ACE

you were tucked against him on the couch, half on his lap, half melting into his chest. the night outside hummed soft and quiet, the kind of peace you only ever found when ace wasn’t on the move.

he had one arm slung lazily around your waist, fingers tracing random shapes against your side. every few seconds, he’d press a kiss somewhere—your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—like he couldn’t go too long without touching you.

“you good there, sweetheart?” he murmured, grinning against your skin. “’cause i could stay like this forever.”

you tilted your face up to kiss him properly. slow, a little teasing, the kind that made him smile mid-kiss, when something thumped against the door.

“the hell was that?” ace muttered, instantly alert.

you sighed, about to get up, but he was already halfway there—shirtless, hair messy, the picture of protective irritation. he yanked the door open and found two idiots: one holding a football, one recording.

“oh, sorry man! wrong door!” the guy stammered.

ace blinked, confusion melting into that crooked grin that never meant anything good. “wrong door, huh? funny how that happens after you kick it.”

“it’s just a trend, bro! no harm—”

“yeah? well, next time your ‘trend’ messes with my girl’s peace, i’ll make you go viral,” ace said with a laugh, easy, playful, but the kind that made you wonder if he was serious. (he was.)

the boys didn’t wait to find out. they muttered a rushed apology and bolted down the hall.

ace shut the door, shaking his head with a grin. “kids these days,” he said, turning back to you.

you were staring at him, half amused, half exasperated. “you scared them.”

“good,” he said, flopping back beside you, tugging you against his chest again. “they deserved it for interrupting our break.”

“you mean my break that you forced?”

“same thing,” he murmured, smiling against your hair.

and of course, the video went viral—captioned: “just wanted to make a trend, but the guy who opened the door laughed like he was gonna kill me.”

comments:

— user not him smiling like a maniac the whole time

— user “funny how that happens after you kick it” is CRAZY 😭

— user the way she just stood there behind him all cozy while he handled it ❤️

— user that laugh said ‘i will commit arson for love’ 😭🔥

— user imagine getting death-threatened by a guy who still looks like sunshine

taglist ﹕@lyvhie @spacejip @polarisjisung | if you'd like to join the taglist, fill out this form!

Looking towards the person standing in front of you, you’re quite surprised to see the same face you’ve lost a few hours ago:

“Sanji?”

The man gives you a wide smile, clearly glad that you’re okay and the blast didn’t mess with your head too much. His hold on you doesn’t let up, even when Sanji knows you can stand on your own. Long fingers are digging into your arm right beneath your armpit.

"Fancy meeting you here, gorgeous,” he answers. Despite taking active part in the carnival-turned-carnage, his breathing isn’t laboured. Truthfully, he hasn’t broken a sweat. “Good thing you’re in one piece, ‘cause your boyfriend almost cut my head off."

Your eyebrows furrow when hearing the word ‘boyfriend’. It’s the notion that a head might have been cut off that has your mind trailing towards the only person besides Sanji willing and able to achieve such a feat.

"Who? Zoro?” Whether you’re asking for confirmation or are simply shocked, you’re not quite sure yourself. “He's not my boyfriend,” you add. The sureness of your tone doesn’t stop your face from getting significantly warmer.

Sanji can’t help but smirk. Your sudden nervousness doesn’t escape his attention. "Does he know that?” he asks. The teasing undertone hides behind candid words, almost flying over your head. “I don't think he got the memo."

You were about to ask Sanji for an explanation when a knife flew right in front of your nose. Right, inquiries into your alleged boyfriend can wait a minute or two.

Several fights and close calls later, you see a head of green hair in the corner of your eye. Part of you yearns to admire Zoro’s skill and fluidity but the more reasonable and less lovestruck part wishes to keep your limbs intact. Besides, getting gravely injured just to ask a man if he has feelings for you is… embarrassing. You’re an adult, not a school kid anymore. Those things can wait for the right moment.

Surprisingly, Zoro seems to be of a different mind. The moment you enter his field of vision, he’s calling out to you. His voice cuts through the clashing of swords and the painful grunts of the surrounding battlefield. Fighting his way through the horde of circus pirates, Zoro is making his way towards you. It would be like a scene from a movie, if the risk of actually dying wasn’t equally real. Death, however, doesn’t seem all too interested in the famous pirate hunter. He’s marching on without halting or slowing down, as though he isn’t a person but an icebreaker cutting through the frozen seas.

He calls out to you again, now much closer than he was before. You turn around, only to be met face-to-face with another one of Buggy’s pirates. Before either of you can raise your weapons, something glistens right behind him. In a quite grotesque manner, the pirate splits in half diagonally, along a clean line from his left shoulder to right hip. The corpse falls to the ground, turning brown dirt into a black, dense pulp.

Then you meet Zoro’s gaze. There’s some blood on his clothes but seeing as its a small spatter, it can’t be his. Brown eyes are piercing yours in an almost human way, as though the man is trying to put the beast inside him back in its kennel. It’s both terrifying and beautiful, as all beasts are. You remember Sanji’s words – he could have ended up no better than the dead pirate at your feet, should you turn up with as much as a bruise. Zoro has always been protective of his friends, yes, but there is a substantial difference between offering to die for someone and the willingness to kill anyone for them.

Zoro lets out a gasp that sounds like your name. “Where were you? Are you hu–”

“Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?” you interrupt. Truly, no better time than the present.

The once intense stare suddenly becomes vacant. It would be a hilarious image if the conversation were about anything else. “What?” he asks quietly, not sure if he heard you correctly.

“Right, I should phrase that differently.” As gross as it may be, you kick away the sliced corpse separating you. Zoro stands idly while you step closer to him. His eyes are glued to you, studying even the smallest movement. “Do you think of yourself as my boyfriend?”

The tiniest wrinkle between his dark eyebrows blears his otherwise blank expression. “What kind of question is that?”

Oh, Zoro, you’re really not making this any easier.

“A ‘yes or no’ kind,” you explain. “Unless you want to indulge me with specifics,” you add, shrugging. Although he’s not the kind of person to go on and on about their love for someone, it would be very satisfying to have this calm and collected warrior profess his hopeless yearning for you. Maybe one day.

Zoro swallows nervously, his larynx slightly bobbing up and down. “Then no.” He looks away from your face, pretending to be scanning your surroundings for more enemies. “I don’t even like you like that.”

Zoro’s nonchalant attitude can be heaven-sent but right now it’s the biggest tell he could have. For a man so unbothered, he seems awfully nervous.

“That’s not what Sanji said.”

The man meets your gaze again, only to roll his eyes. Of course, Sanji was going to milk that situation as much as he could. He saw Zoro lose his grip on emotions, making Sanji believe that he sees you as more than a friend. When, obviously, that isn’t true. You’re his good friend, that’s all.

“According to him, you almost cut his head off when he showed up without me,” you continue.

His fist flexes around the sword. A sudden surge of anger makes him want to punch holes in brick walls. Sanji is a lucky man not to be in the vicinity, or Zoro might do well on his threat. The swordsman can only do what he does best: look for a ‘friendly’ explanation of all the lovesick things he’s doing for you.

“Because he’s irresponsible,” he explains. At least in his head, it makes sense. “This place is crawling with Marines and pirates, so we should stick together.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Then maybe you should be the one keeping an eye on me.”

“I’m not your babysitter.”

As though he’s uttered some ancient prayer, you suddenly found yourself surrounded by more pirates. Your first thought is to turn to Zoro, come up with a strategy. It appears that he already has a strategy, a quite simple one at that: defeat everyone. His sharp swords slice through skin at a terrifying speed, as well as depth. You find it almost impossible to keep up with him but that’s hardly a concern. Zoro parries attacks before you notice them. His large frame stands like a defensive wall between you and Buggy’s goons. A few times, he’s pushed you away right before dodging another swing of a deadly weapon. Even if you wanted to help him in the fight, you couldn’t. And yet Zoro was the one who claimed not to be your babysitter just a few minutes ago.

When the pirates joined their unfortunate, sliced friend on the blood-soaked dirt, you continued the conversation:

“Yes, you’re not a babysitter, because I’m not a baby. Yet you always hover around me, even when I don’t need help.”

Zoro meets your gaze. There’s something strangely intense in the way he’s looking at you, as though he’s been itching to reveal long-hidden thoughts. Whatever dilemma he's solving in his head, he decides to fight his urge a little longer. The ferocious burn of his gaze dims, it’s place taken by Zoro’s typical blankness. The previous passion, however, still lingers in those brown eyes, almost imperceptible to anyone else. A famed warrior is losing a battle against himself.

“You’re slow and weak,” he states. Zoro pretends to ignore the blood and dirt sticking to the sais in your hands. Deep inside, he’s already studied the evidence of your fighting and sustained injuries. His ‘friendly’ feelings convince him that the result is completely his fault. “I’m just making sure you don’t die.”

“But you were more than willing to kill Sanji if something happened to me,” you point out.

The man doesn’t as much as blink while delivering you his judgment. “I don’t like him.” The heaviness of his tone reveals that there is much more to that statement than simple dislike of someone’s personality. It is the disdain for what someone represents with themself, the amalgamation of traits that Zoro lacks and how he thinks others view Sanji; it isn’t a dislike of who Sanji is, but who Zoro isn’t and can’t be. Some would call it ‘jealousy’ but Zoro can’t be jealous. He would have to be in love with you. How preposterous!

“So you do like me?”

Zoro sighs heavily. He’s clearly not enjoying the direction in which this conversation is going. You’re trading way too close to what he’s unwilling to admit even to himself. “I guess you’re alright,” he mumbles after a moment of silence.

You can’t help the frustrated groan brewing in the back of your throat. Zoro gives you a questioning look. Is his thinking you’re ‘alright’ such a tragedy?

“I’ve given you numerous chances, Zoro,” you say. The wrinkle between his eyebrows only deepens. “Help me out a little or do I really have to do everything myself?”

“What are you–”

Zoro doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Your lips meet his in a clumsy, albeit passionate kiss. His moment of surprise dissipates quickly as he answers your pecks with even more ferocity. Zoro’s arm circles your waist much too low to be considered ‘friendly’ in any capacity. He pulls you closer to himself, chests colliding in a long-overdue embrace. The two of you crane your necks in a quite coordinated way, constantly searching for a deeper, even more intimate, angle.

Little do you know, Sanji and Nami witnessed the entire conversation. They may have been too far to hear your words but definitely close enough to see the searing kiss that befits a bedroom more than a battlefield. Nami is finally freed from the frustration of seeing your ‘friendship’ with Zoro. Truthfully, if this farce had gone on one day longer, she was willing to cause a scene, reveal your feelings for each other and leave you to deal with the aftermath. Her moment of serenity doesn’t last long, however. Sanji, a teasing smirk adorning his face, suggests that maybe they should follow suit. Nami only lets out a frustrated groan and mumbles something about ‘ruining a nice moment’.

______

Zoro bites his tongue and clenches his jaw when you announce that you’re going to stick with Sanji and Luffy in Loguetown. He was going to casually tell you to keep him company and not get into trouble, a plea disguised as an order, but it wouldn’t make sense anymore – he’d have to be your boyfriend, such a high-sounding title, to demand every second of your time. Because he is definitely not in love with you, Zoro simply refuses to comment on the arrangement. His silence earns him a questioning look from Nami but he pretends not to notice it. He’s good at ignoring things.

For a man who is not in love, Zoro thinks about you a lot. Although ‘a lot’ is an adorable euphemism. Ever since you disappeared into the crowd with Sanji and Luffy, Zoro’s thoughts have been occupied solely by you. Whenever his eye is caught by something in the shop window, he wonders whether you’d like it. Would you gush about the dress? Say a mean quip about a rather interesting top hat? Then his thoughts become more grim. You’re somewhere out there, going for a stroll in a fish market with Sanji by your side. Is the cook minding his manners or being sleazy as always? What cheesy line has he thrown at you this time?

Zoro’s eyebrows furrow. His face becomes almost the same colour as his hair. What if Sanji’s sleaziness is working?

The man takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw again. Why would he be even thinking about Sanji trying his chances? It’s not like Zoro is your boyfriend and has any right to be jealous about other men being interested in you. He’s not even in love with you, so why should he care about Sanji’s constant flattery?

He manages to push those thoughts away but they remain with him, lingering in the back of his mind. If he’s not careful, he might think about you and Sanji again. Perhaps there’s another, ‘friendly’, explanation…

When Zoro arrives at the square, two new swords adorning his hip, he immediately notices the absence of something. Well, to be exact, it is the absence of someone – you’re nowhere to be seen. Sanji appears to be perfectly content with holding a rather large fish as though the meat is going to be tonight’s date, not dinner. Whether it’s you being gone or Sanji having no care in the world, Zoro’s anger reaches the boiling point. Of course, it’s not because the girl he’s in love with seems to be gone and, possibly, in danger. He’s just looking out for his friend, while the blond dishie boy can’t split his attention between fish and people.

Zoro crosses the distance to Sanji in long, hastened strides. "Where is she?" he asks in a low voice. Despite appearing collected, there’s a sense of urgency in the way he speaks. This is the sound of a man holding on to his sanity by a thread. The question is when, not if, reason leaves him entirely.

Sanji, too busy admiring the fish in his arms, doesn’t notice Zoro’s angered tone. "Around,” he answers. The man lifts his gaze from the meat and looks to his right, then left side. "Somewhere…” His smile drops when he realizes that you’re not next to him. Sanji can’t quite remember when was the last time he saw you.

"This town is crawling with Marines, you idiot,” Zoro drones out. He gets even closer to Sanji. If it wasn’t for the fish in the cook’s arms, the two man would be touching foreheads. Something dark stirs in Zoro’s eyes; something that betrays all they lies he’s been telling himself. Only love can breed such anger. “How could you lose her?”

Sanji stares back at Zoro with apparent confusion. Since when is the swordsman so hot-headed? "Oi, pipe down, mosshead, will ya? She's a big girl, she'll manage.” It doesn’t escape his attention how the furious look in Zoro’s eyes only intensifies. Then, as if suddenly recalling long weeks of shared travels, Sanji completely understands the emotional outburst. His confusion subsides only to be replaced by a mischievous smirk. “Besides,” he begins in a teasing tone, “you should be the one looking after your girlfriend."

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Zoro answers, a little too quickly. The deadpan delivery rids his words of any credibility. He appears like a child, who just recently learned that they can lie. While trying too hard to sound honest, they give away their deception entirely.

Sanji’s smile only grows. He’s very much amused by Zoro’s poor attempt at hiding the truth. Weighing his chances of being skewered on a sword, Sanji decides to get under the other man’s skin just a little more:

“So you won’t mind if I pay her a little late-night visit?”

In a flash, Zoro grabs the collar of Sanji’s shirt. The blond man’s smirk doesn’t falter. It’s as if he’s been expecting such a reaction. Even more – he wanted to see it. The truth is, Sanji is counting on Zoro conducting a smidge of introspection to accept his fairly obvious affection for you. Maybe if the swordsman realizes that most people wouldn’t throw hands at others by the tiniest suggestion that their friend is unaccounted for, he’ll finally understand that the flutter of his heart is not excitement or nervousness.

Before Zoro can actually skewer Sanji, Nami steps in. “Now’s really not the time, boys.” She gives each of them a stern look and both of them know better than to defy her at that moment.

Although Zoro knows that Nami is right and he can set the record straight with Sanji after you’re safe and sound, he doesn’t let the cook have the last word. "If something happens to her, you'll be the first person I try my new swords on,” he says. It’s not a threat, as much as it is a warning; Zoro is not trying to scare Sanji, he’s simply informing him about the natural consequences of his actions.

Zoro lets go of Sanji’s shirt. His angered gaze lingers on the other man for a moment longer, before he turns around, ready to head back into the bustling city in search for you.

"Save some of that energy for the missus,” Sanji calls out.

The man stands still, hand gripping one of the swords. He looks over his shoulder, debating whether Sanji’s quip deserves an answer. As much as Zoro itches to respond to the annoying dishie, his mind is set on a different goal. Somewhere out there, you might be in danger. Whether its Marines or other pirates, a malevolent pair of hands could be reaching for something it has no right to touch. The thought makes his skin crawl.

With a sense of urgency in his step, Zoro leaves his crewmates at the town square.